THE   LAST  CHRISTIAN 


|«IV.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


SHE  WAS  VERY  PALE— A  TALL  FIGURE  IN 
A  WHITE  GOWN— RATHER  OLD-FASHIONED 


THE   LAST  CHRISTIAN 


BY 

GEORGE   KIBBE  TURNER 


WITH  FRONTISPIECE  IN  COLOR 


HEARST'S   INTERNATIONAL  LIBRARY  CO. 
NEW  YORK  1914 


2133187 


Copyright,  1914,  by 
HEARST'S  INTERNATIONAL  LIBRARY  Co.,  INC. 

Copyright,  1914.  by 
THE  MCCLURK  PUBLICATIONS,  INC. 

All  rights  reserved,  including  the  translation  into  foreign 
languages,  including  the  Scandinavian 


NN  A   BODED   CO.  PMM 

RAHWAV,    N.  J. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  THE  UNIVERSAL  CRISIS  ....  9 

II  THE  WHITE  CHURCH    ....  22 

III  THE  SECRET  BOOK 41 

IV  THE  COMING  OF  MORTAL  ERROR     .  66 
V  THE  VAGRANT  FEAR     ....  80 

VI  THE  GOD  OF  MY  FATHERS  .      .      .in 

VII  MY  OWN  PEOPLE 128 

VIII  THE  ROAD  INTO  THE  DARK  .      .      .145 

IX  THE  VALE  OF  PEACE      .      .      .      .161 

X  THE  VAMPIRE 194 

XI  THIS   Is   NONE   OTHER   BUT  THE 

HOUSE  OF  GOD 210 

XII  THE  DEAD  PROPHETS    ....  229 

XIII  WHAT  Is  UPON  Us?      .      .      .      .  252 

XIV  THE  DARKENED  SHRINE      .     .     .271 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  UNIVERSAL  CRISIS 

THE  time  of  the  Great  Crisis  for  the  Earth  in 
1886  was,  as  it  happened,  a  matter  of  great 
concern  and  importance  to  me  personally. 
From  the  beginning  of  the  year  I  had  heard  them 
talking  continually  of  Hell.     But  I  find  that  my 
mind  goes  back  naturally  to  the  summer  Sunday 
afternoon  when  the  four  bearded  men  sat  together 
in  my  grandfather's  sitting-room,  canvassing  the 
whole  great  matter  thoroughly. 

I  stood,  from  the  beginning  of  it,  at  Mr.  Gris- 
wold's  knee,  where  he  had  called  me — perfectly 
silent.  The  great,  bony  knuckle  of  his  knee-joint 
lay  hard  at  my  back,  and  onje  or  twice,  in  moving, 
I  touched  unintentionally  the  long  gray  beard, 
which  hung  almost  to  his  waist. 

I  felt  his  lean  leg  stiffening  behind  me  as  the 
president  of  the  Christian  College  talked  on.  A 
question  burst  from  him  at  last. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  "  is  this  book  the  Word  of 
God  or  of  Professor  Smyth?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  long  brown  missionary,  leaning 
forward  eagerly,  "  tell  us  that." 
9 


io  The  Last  Christian 

He  stretched  out  gauntly  from  his  chair — all 
brown :  a  lean  brown  face,  a  small  round  head,  a 
round  brown  beard,  and  an  Adam's  apple,  which 
appeared  and  disappeared  in  the  scanty  margin  of 
his  whiskers  as  he  talked,  and  little  eyes  that 
gleamed  brilliantly. 

"  In  the  light  of  modern  discovery,"  said  the 
president  of  the  Christian  College,  "  can  it  be  a 
question  whether  we  shall  have  intelligent  inter- 
pretation of  the  Scriptures?  If  so " 

"  No,  not  at  all.  This  is  not  interpretation," 
said  Mr.  Griswold  loudly. 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Mr.  Means,  the  mis- 
sionary. 

"Interpretation,  no!"  said  Mr.  Griswold; 
"whittling,  and  whittling!  Picking  and  choosing 
what  you  want,  and  throwing  all  the  rest  away. 
What's  left  is  not  the  religion  of  Jesus  Christ;  it 
is  the  religion  of  Egbert  Smyth." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  the  missionary. 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  Mr.  Griswold,  shaking  with 
nervous  tension,  "  and  you  mark  my  words.  When 
we  give  up  the  Word  of  God  as  it  is  written,  when 
the  Smyths  and  Perkinses  make  over  our  religion 
for  us,  the  day  of  the  last  Christian  has  come  I  " 

Mr.  Griswold  had  been  an  awesome  figure  to 
me  always,  but  he  was  appalling  when  he  became 
aroused.  It  was  not  his  huge,  bony  frame  alone, 
nor  his  loose,  erratic  movements,  nor  his  long  gray 


The  Universal  Crisis  n 

beard.  More  than  these,  it  was  the  deep-set  eyes, 
which  gleamed  out  between  his  hollow  temples, 
intense  and  brilliant — like  a  fever  in  a  skull.  And 
he  was  continually  catching  fire  from  his  religious 
feeling. 

"  Thank  God,"  his  vibrant  voice  continued, 
"  that  day  will  never  come !  " 

A  shiver  of  relief  passed  over  me  as  he  said  it. 
Even  the  suggestion  worried  me. 

I  had  been  forgotten  long  before.  I  knew  it, 
and  I  would  have  gone  out  gladly.  And  yet  I  did 
not  move,  for  fear  I  might  in  some  way  disturb 
my  elders. 

"  I  should  hope  not,  I  am  sure,"  said  President 
Mercer  of  the  Christian  College,  and  smiled 
slightly,  but  very  politely,  as  he  said  it.  He  was 
a  spare,  dark  man,  with  thin  side  whiskers,  which 
fell  on  either  side  of  his  face  with  the  peculiar 
lifeless  droop  of  an  old-fashioned  black  string  tie; 
a  yellow  man,  who  was  always  taking  white  home- 
opathic pills  from  a  little  vial.  Of  all  the  the- 
ologians who  called  on  us  from  the  world  abroad, 
he  represented  the  most  advanced  culture. 

"  I  think  we  need  have  no  fear  of  that,"  he  said. 

"  No ;  God  will  see  to  that !  "  said  Mr.  Means, 
the  missionary. 

"  But,  Mr.  Griswold,"  asked  President  Mercer, 
"  do  you  yourself  believe  to-day  in  a  literal  Hell 
of  fire?" 


12  The  Last  Christian 

"  Who  does  not,"  asked  Mr.  Means  quickly, 
"  who  believes  in  the  inspired  Word  of  God?  " 

My  grandfather  watched  him  silently  from  his 
arm-chair,  turning  his  sharp  black  eyes  from  one 
face  to  another,  biting  at  a  wisp  of  his  silver- 
tipped  black  beard — saying  nothing.  He  never 
spoke  at  times  like  this,  when  he  entertained  the 
learned  preachers  from  the  White  Church  on 
Sunday. 

"  And  you  believe  that  all  who  have  not  ac- 
cepted Christ — all,  every  one — are  eternally  con- 
demned to  it?" 

"  How  could  I  believe  otherwise  and  have  seen 
what  I  have  seen  ?  "  asked  the  missionary.  "  What 
folly,  what  folly!  "  he  went  on  bitterly.  "  Here 
are  millions  of  our  fellow  men  waiting  on  the  edge 
of  an  eternal  torment;  and  they  propose  that 
we  say  to  them :  *  We  do  not  know.  We  are  not 
sure.  But  no  doubt,  no  doubt,  you  will  have  a 
period  of  probation  in  another  world.'  Nonsense, 
and  worse  than  nonsense!  Do  you  know  what 
that  would  mean?  " 

President  Mercer  shook  his  head. 

"It  would  mean  the  death  of  Christian  mis- 
sions. Yes.  The  disappearance  of  the  Christian 
religion  from  the  earth." 

"  It  is  an  immense  question,"  remarked  Presi- 
dent Mercer,  "  this  discussion  that  is  convulsing 
now  the  world  of  thought." 


LThe  Universal  Crisis  13 

"What  is  your  belief?"  asked  Mr.  Griswold 
suddenly  of  President  Mercer. 

"  I  confess  I  am  not  clear,"  answered  the  presi- 
dent of  the  college.  "Are  you?"  He  always 
asked  a  question  back. 

"  I  am,"  replied  Mr.  Griswold.  "  I  stand  upon 
the  Word  of  God." 

"  Absolutely,"  said  the  missionary. 

"  There  is  no  doubt  of  what  it  means,"  said 
Mr.  Griswold.  "  It  says  it  clearly." 

"  One  trial  and  no  more,"  called  Mr.  Means. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Griswold. 

"And  failing  that?"  asked  President  Mercer. 

"  God's  immutable  penalty — the  everlasting 
pangs  of  Hell,"  said  the  brown  missionary,  and 
his  eyes  gleamed. 

"  It  is  an  immense  question,"  said  President 
Mercer,  "  an  immense  question !  " 

And,  there  being  a  pause  in  a  long  argument, 
I  glanced  at  my  grandfather,  and  caught  his  eye 
and  got  consent.  And  I  moved  awkwardly  and 
self-consciously  out  of  the  sitting-room.  My  going 
was  not  noticed,  except  by  President  Mercer,  who 
smiled  sadly  but  politely  at  me.  A  few  hasty  steps, 
a  feeling  of  relief  at  the  nape  of  my  neck  from 
the  glance  of  eyes  that  were  not  looking  at  me 
at  all,  and  I  was  out  in  the  dining-room  and  the 
door  was  closed  behind  me. 

And  there,  beside  the  door  in  the  dining-room, 


14  The  Last  Christian 

stood  my  grandmother,  where  she  had  been  listen- 
ing— white  and  trembling. 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  came  out,  Calvin,"  she 
said  quickly.  "  Let  us  go  into  the  bedroom  and 
read."  . 

She  took  my  fingers  into  her  cold  hand  and 
started  toward  her  bed-chamber,  which  led  out 
of  the  dining-room.  But  first  I  stopped  to  get 
my  book  from  the  secretary.  All  the  books  in 
our  house  were  in  the  secretary — the  upper  part 
of  our  writing-desk.  There  were  five  large  tan 
volumes  of  the  Encyclopedia  and  two  of  Natural 
History,  full  of  illustrations  of  animals.  I  was 
forbidden  to  read  these  on  Sunday.  All  of  the 
rest  of  the  books,  prose  or  poetry,  were  Biblical, 
or  founded  on  Bible  fact.  I  must  choose  one  from 
these  for  Sunday  reading.  I  chose,  as  I  usually 
did,  the  story  of  Bunyan's  Christian;  and  went 
into  the  bedroom,  where  my  grandmother  was  al- 
ready sitting,  with  her  two  books  on  her  lap. 

I  knew  perfectly  well  that  my  grandmother  had 
been  listening  to  the  conversation  in  the  sitting- 
room,  and  the  reason  why  she  had  done  so.  And 
yet,  strangely  enough,  it  made  very  little  impres- 
sion on  me. 

My  grandmother  was  a  little  woman  who  was 
always  cold.  Her  lips  were  cold,  the  flesh  on  her 
fingers  was  loose  and  cold,  and  she  wore,  even  in 
summer,  a  small  gray  worsted  shawl  close  drawn 


The  Universal  Crisis  15 

about  her  shoulders.  She  had  not  been  well  for 
several  years — since  the  time  when  my  father  and 
mother  had  been  killed  in  "  the  Accident."  And 
she  sat  every  day,  nearly  all  the  afternoon,  read- 
ing in  her  bedroom. 

Over  the  bed  was  the  big  steel  engraving  of 
"  The  Crucifixion,"  full  of  figures  in  pain.  Above 
her,  at  one  side  of  the  window  by  which  she  sat, 
was  a  photograph  of  my  father — a  long,  dark 
face,  long  nose,  and  black  eyes  which  followed 
me  about  the  room.  He  had  been  my  grand- 
mother's only  child. 

Since  the  beginning  of  that  year,  when  they 
talked  so  much  of  Hell,  my  grandmother,  I  knew, 
had  followed  that  discussion  continually.  The 
past  few  weeks  she  had  been  sitting,  with  her  two 
books,  her  flexible  leather  Bible  and  her  brown 
Concordance,  searching  out,  day  after  day,  the 
texts  quoted  in  the  progress  of  the  argument.  The 
.leaves  of  the  Concordance  were  worn  and  dark- 
ened at  the  places  of  exposition  of  the  three  words 
for  Hell. 

She  read  more  rapidly  that  afternoon  than  I 
had  ever  seen  her,  fumbling  nervously  at  the  books 
in  her  haste  to  find  the  texts  that  they  had  quoted 
in  the  sitting-room.  She  was  breathing  hard,  as  I 
had  noticed  her  doing  lately.  Once,  looking  up, 
I  saw  that  she  seemed  to  be  having  one  of  her 
spells  of  shivering. 


1 6  The  Last  Christian 

But  the  long  Sunday  afternoon  wore  on,  and 
finally  I  heard  the  deep  tones  of  the  men's  voices 
in  the  front  hall  and  the  jar  of  the  front  door, 
and  I  knew  that  the  Sunday  visitors  had  gone  on 
to  the  house  of  Mr.  Griswold,  beyond  the  church. 
And  still  my  grandmother  kept  reading  in  her  two 
books — with  her  eyes  focussed  now,  I  could  see, 
where  they  usually  stopped — at  that  worst  of  all 
texts : 

"  Where  their  worm  dieth  not,  and  the  fire  is 
not  quenched." 

I  looked  up.  My  grandfather  was  in  the  door- 
way, his  sharp  black  eyes  upon  my  grandmother. 
Still  she  kept  at  her  reading. 

"  I  thought  you  were  getting  the  better  of  this/' 
said  my  grandfather  sharply. 

My  grandmother  started  quickly.  "  I  do  try — 
I  do  try,  Mr.  Morgan,"  she  said  nervously.  She 
always  called  him  "  Mr.  Morgan."  Her  two 
books  slipped  down  to  the  floor. 

"  You  have  got  to  get  control  of  yourself,"  said 
my  grandfather. 

He  stooped  down  for  the  books,  and  laid  them 
precisely — as  he  did  everything — upon  the  table 
by  the  bed. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Morgan,  I  know  I  have 
— I  know  I  have,"  said  my  grandmother.  "  But 
yet " 

"We  won't  discuss  it  now,"  my  grandfather 


The  Universal  Crisis  17 

said,  and  looked  at  me.  Yet  he  must  have  known 
that  I  knew  quite  well  already. 

That  night  I  awakened  with  a  start.  It  was 
very  late.  There  was  the  sound  of  a  strange  voice 
in  the  house,  and  I  knew,  with  a  jump  of  my  heart, 
that  the  doctor  was  there.  I  was  up  in  rny  bare 
feet,  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  listening.  For  some 
time  they  were  in  the  bedroom.  The  back  stair- 
case stretched  down,  a  black  hole,  below  me.  I 
held  my  breath  and  listened.  And  finally  I  heard 
my  grandfather  and  the  doctor  coming  oppo- 
site the  other  side  of  the  stairway  door  below 
me. 

" — her  mind,"  the  doctor  was  saying. 

"  Worry,"  said  my  grandfather.     "  Our  boy." 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  The  fact  of  the  matter  is,"  my  grandfather 
explained  abruptly,  "  our  boy  never  joined  the 
church." 

"  I  remember,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  And  toward  the  last  of  it,  I  suppose  he  got  to 
be  kind  of  a  free-thinker." 

"As  good  a  fellow  as  ever  lived!"  said  the 
doctor. 

"  And  then,"  went  on  my  grandfather  slowly, 
"  you  know — the  Accident." 

"  Yes,"  the  doctor  said.  "  And  now  this  ever- 
lasting talk  of  Hell  fire." 

"  Yes,"  said  my  grandfather. 


1 8  The  Last  Christian 

"  New  England's  Hell.  Do  you  know  what  it 
does,  principally?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"  I  am  no  theologian,"  said  my  grandfather. 

"  It  burns  up  the  women.  Ten  generations  of 
New  England  women  have  been  burned  alive 
by  it!  How  many  of  them  have  I  seen  myself. 
Older  women.  Take  my  own  mother.  I  have 
to " 

They  moved  farther  from  the  door. 

"  Serious "  my  grandfather  was  saying. 

" — kill  her  if "  said  the  doctor. 

They  were  in  the  sitting-room,  out  of  earshot. 

I  was  in  bed  again — puzzled  and  well  fright- 
ened, but  soon  asleep. 

In  the  morning  my  grandmother  was  up  and 
about  at  breakfast-time  again.  I  looked  at  her 
with  fear  and  apprehension.  Would  she  die? 
How  did  people  look  before  they  died?  As  far 
as  I  could  see,  she  seemed  little  changed.  Weaker, 
perhaps,  a  little  more  short  of  breath — that  was 
all. 

But  it  was  that  next  night  that  my  grandmother 
began  coming  into  my  room  with  her  lamp.  She 
had  always  put  me  to  bed  when  I  was  very  small; 
but  now,  never.  It  was  my  grandfather's  belief 
that  I  was  old  enough  to  go  to  bed  alone  when 
I  was  six. 

But,  that  night,  the  light  of  the  lamp  upon  my 
face  waked  me.  I  was  a  little  frightened  at  first, 


The  Universal  Crisis  19 

and  I  lay  still  and  looked  without  moving.  Then 
I  decided  not  to  move  at  all.  I  did  not  know,  in 
fact,  just  what  I  should  do.  Several  times  she 
looked  at  me,  and  once  she  bent  as  if  to  touch 
me.  But  finally,  with  a  sigh,  she  turned,  and  her 
shadow  turned  slowly  after  her  and  followed  the 
yellow  light  of  her  lamp — went  out  of  the  room. 
And  very  soon  I  was  asleep  again. 

The  next  night,  and  the  night  after,  she  did 
this.  But  the  fourth  night  she  stopped  and  spoke 
to  me: 

"  Calvin,"  she  whispered,  "  Calvin,  are  you 
awake?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  I  said,  sitting  up  quickly. 

She  sat  down  beside  me  on  the  edge  of  my  bed, 
leaving  her  lamp  on  the  stand. 

"  Lie  down,  Calvin,"  she  said;  and,  when  I  had 
done  so,  she  took  my  hand  in  her  cold  fingers. 

"  Do  you  ever  lie  here  in  your  bed,  Calvin," 
she  asked,  "  and  think  of  God,  and  how  good  He 
is  to  you?" 

"  Sometimes  I  do,"  I  answered.  And  so  I  did; 
I  was  reminded  to  do  so  continually. 

"  So  kind,  so  kind,"  she  said.  And  her  hand 
shivered  in  mine  as  she  said  it:  "  Did  you  never 
want  to  do  something  for  Him?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  I  said,  with  the  rush  of  emotion 
with  which  I  had  always  responded  to  such  an 
appeal. 


2O  The  Last  Christian 

"  Did  you  ever  think  you  would  like  to  join 
the  Church?" 

"  Yes,  I  did  one  time,"  I  said.  I  had.  It  was 
at  a  time,  two  years  before,  when  two  other  boys, 
a  little  older  than  I,  had  done  so. 

"And  now  would  you?"  she  asked;  and  her 
hands  shook  still  more  in  mine. 

"  Yes,  I  would.  I  know  I  would,"  I  said,  still 
under  the  emotion  that  had  wakened  in  me. 

My  grandmother  leaned  over  suddenly,  and  I 
felt  her  cold,  wet  lips  upon  my  forehead. 

"  My  boy,  my  little  boy !  "  she  whispered. 

Her  emotion  surprised  me.  She  kissed  me  very 
seldom.  But  then  I  saw  that  she  was  not  looking 
at  me  at  all — but  past  me. 

"  This  is  your  father's  room,  Calvin,"  she  said, 
sitting  up  and  looking  across  it. 

I  waited. 

"  I  used  to  come  in  to  see  him  here,  as  I  do  you 
to-night,  when  he  was  no  older  than  you  are  now." 

She  got  up,  apparently  without  noticing  me  any 
longer. 

"  And  now  he  has  gone,"  she  said  absently, 
taking  up  her  lamp  and  starting  for  the  door. 
Then  she  turned  and  looked  at  me  again. 

"You  will  not  forget?"  she  said. 

"  No,  ma'am,  I  will  not,"  I  told  her. 

The  shadow  closed  upon  the  room,  and  I  was 
alone  again. 


The  Universal  Crisis  21 

I  lay  awake  for  some  time  after  she  went  out, 
thinking.  Then,  as  now,  your  bedroom  is  the 
place  where  you  yourself,  stark  alone,  as  you  will 
be  in  the  hour  you  die,  face  the  facts  of  the  uni- 
verse as  they  are  to  you — without  disguise  or  color 
or  companion. 

I  was  twelve;  and  I  lay  and  stared  across  the 
dark  into  the  universe  as  I  knew  it  then. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  WHITE  CHURCH 

THE  Universe  in  which  I  first  found  myself 
was  divided  into  two  parts.  The  first  of 
these  was  the  Earth. 

There  was  a  street  of  white  houses,  ranged  be- 
hind two  parallel  lines  of  large  elm  trees — white 
houses  with  pillars  in  front  of  them.  I  lived  in 
the  largest  house  with  the  largest  pillars — my 
grandfather's.  Next  to  us  was  the  House  of  God 
— a  tremendous  white  building,  with  huge  white 
fluted  pillars  stretching  upward  to  its  roof.  At  the 
top  of  them,  the  pigeons  cooed  and  chuckled  some- 
where out  of  sight.  From  my  bedroom  window,  at 
night  I  could  see  the  high  black  windows  on  its 
side. 

The  Earth  went  outward  to  the  ragged  tops  of 
the  mountains  close  behind  the  town — and  ended 
in  the  sky.  And  there,  above  us,  stretched  the 
second  and  vastly  more  important  part  of  the  Uni- 
verse, which  I  knew  just  as  certainly  as  the  Earth. 

Toward  the  center  of  it,  at  an  angle  of  about 
sixty  degrees  from  the  Earth,  was  God,  a  great, 
gray-bearded  Presence — much  larger  than  a  man 


The  White  Church  23 

— seated  upon  a  high  white  throne.  Round  him 
were  countless  multitudes  of  saints  and  angels — 
and  seraphim,  with  one  pair  of  their  six  wings 
across  their  eyes.  The  dead  were  there  also — 
my  father  and  mother.  There  was  a  City  with 
crystal  walls,  a  Glassy  Sea,  and  a  River  with  a 
Shining  Shore.  Everything  was  white  and  lumi- 
nous with  internal  light.  And  there  was  always 
certain  rapture  in  the  sense  of  intensity  and  white- 
ness of  this  light. 

This  second  part  of  the  Universe — Heaven — 
could  not  be  seen;  it  was  too  distant.  But  I  cannot 
remember  the  time  when  I  did  not  know  it  was 
there.  I  learned  it  before  I  can  remember;  but 
the  sources  of  my  knowledge  I  know  perfectly 
well. 

From  my  grandmother  I  learned  the  fact  and 
location  of  this  part  of  the  Universe,  and  the 
emotion  with  which  all  thought  of  it  should  be 
accompanied.  She  spoke  to  me  of  it  as  soon  as  I 
could  understand  articulate  speech;  explained  the 
presence  of  God  there,  and  of  my  father  and 
mother;  and  taught  me,  at  the  beginning  of  my 
own  use  of  words,  to  address  myself  there — kneel- 
ing, bowing  my  head,  raising  my  hands  or  my 
eyes — with  every  possible  expression  of  profound 
emotion. 

My  clear  and  detailed  vision  of  Heaven  I 
learned  from  songs  the  women  sang.  I  can  not, 


24  The  Last  Christian 

in  fact,  remember  the  time  when  I  did  not  hear  the 
women  singing  of  Heaven. 

The  street  of  white  houses  was  a  silent  place, 
usually.  The  sharp  sound  of  chopping  wood  now 
and  then — of  pounding;  but  little  human  noise  and 
laughter,  and  that  almost  all  of  children.  But  no 
day  passed,  and  few  hours,  when  I  could  not  hear 
some  woman,  in  one  of  the  houses,  singing  the  joys 
of  Heaven — simple,  plaintive,  monotonous  songs, 
with  the  refrain  sung  over  and  over  again,  until 
they  beat  into  my  memory  a  sharp  and  vivid  pic- 
ture of  the  topography  and  inhabitants  of  the 
great  division  of  the  Universe  above  me. 

The  most  familiar  of  all  of  these  songs  of  the 
women  was  "  There's  a  Land  that  is  Fairer  than 
Day";  the  most  impressive,  to  me,  "Where  the 
Waves  of  Eternity  Roll."  And  the  one  that  I 
liked  best,  and  that  my  grandmother  often  sang 
to  me: 

Shall  we  gather  at  the  river, 
Where  bright  angel  feet  have  trod — 
With  its  crystal  side  forever 
Flowing  from  the  Throne  of  God. 

There  were  many  of  these  songs  describing  the 
details  of  Heaven.  I  knew  many  of  them  myself 
before  I  could  read. 

Both  from  my  grandmother's  teachings  and 
from  the  words  of  these  songs,  I  learned  the  rela- 
tion of  the  two  parts  of  the  Universe  to  each 


The  White  Church  25 

other.  I  learned  that  the  dead,  who  had  lived 
upon  the  Earth,  were  now  in  Heaven;  and  that 
we,  now  upon  the  Earth,  must  sometime  follow 
them  there.  The  songs  that  the  women  sang  were 
full  of  joy  and  anticipation  of  the  change;  and 
twice  this  change  had  come  to  persons  upon  the 
street  of  white  houses.  I  heard  the  women  singing 
their  songs  of  joy  and  peace  and  promise  in  the 
houses  of  the  dead. 

I  may  have  had  some  knowledge  at  that  earlier 
time  that  there  was  a  third  dimension  of  the  Uni- 
verse— the  part  below  the  horizon-line  and  under- 
neath my  feet.  But,  if  I  had,  I  never  realized  it. 
It  was  spoken  of  covertly,  if  at  all.  And,  for  me, 
Hell  practically  had  no  existence  until  I  began 
myself  to  attend  the  White  Church.  Indeed,  I 
had  never  obtained  the  clear  vision  of  it  that  I 
had  of  the  remainder  of  the  Universe — of  the 
Earth  or  of  Heaven.  I  knew  it  was  a  fact,  but  it 
never  greatly  terrified  me — even  in  that  year  when 
they  were  continually  talking  of  it. 

Before  I  was  five  years  old  I  began  to  attend 
the  White  Church  and  to  be  given  systematic  in- 
struction concerning  the  Universe  out  of  the  Bible, 
from  which  I  had  always  known  that  all  the 
knowledge  in  the  women's  songs  and  my  grand- 
mother's teachings  had  been  drawn. 

The  great  White  Church,  long  before  I  at- 
tended it,  was  the  most  impressive  and  mysterious 


26  The  Last  Christian 

object  in  my  world.  It  was  the  gathering-place 
and  one  great  center  of  emotion  for  all  people. 
On  Sundays  it  was  continually  filled  with  solemn 
voices.  On  three  nights  a  week  there  was  light 
in  its  high  windows,  and  the  sound  of  women 
singing  and  the  rhythm  of  voices — the  voices  of 
older  men — in  prayer.  And  four  nights  a  week  I 
saw,  as  I  lay  in  bed,  that  the  high  windows  were 
black,  and  I  knew  that  darkness  brooded  in  the 
great  upper  room,  where  the  golden  Gothic  letters 
over  the  pulpit  arch  announced  the  fact  I  knew  so 
well. 

£bis  10  Hone  Otbcr  but  tbe  Ifoousc  of  (Boo 

In  the  basement  of  the  White  Church,  which 
was  fitted  up  for  the  instruction  of  the  children 
from  the  Bible,  I  learned,  from  the  time  that  I 
was  five,  the  history  and  philosophy  of  the  making 
of  the  Earth  and  of  Man,  and  Man's  progress 
upon  the  Earth — as  God  revealed  it  to  the  ancient 
Hebrews.  And  I  learned  with  deep  and  purifying 
emotion  the  Christians'  history  of  the  saving  of 
mankind  by  God's  Son. 

In  a  way,  I  had  a  complete  knowledge  and  phi- 
losophy of  the  Universe.  The  information  was 
all  there,  of  course;  but  it  was  not  entirely  made 
clear  to  me. 

And  so  it  remained  for  me,  like  those  about 
me,  to  have  my  complete  and  final  knowledge  of 
the  Universe,  in  its  full  three  parts,  from  the  min- 


The  White  Church  27 

ister  of  the  White  Church,  Mr.  Griswold.  Sun- 
day after  Sunday,  from  the  time  I  was  six,  I  heard 
that  great,  vibrant  voice,  expounding  it  from  be- 
hind the  high  black  pulpit  underneath  the  golden 
motto  of  the  House  of  God. 

There  were  three  parts  of  the  Universe,  he 
proclaimed — each  with  very  definite  relations  to 
the  others.  There  was  the  Earth,  populated  with 
teeming  millions  of  men,  unsaved.  There  was  a 
Heaven  above,  made  possible  to  us  only  by  the 
awful  Blood  Atonement  of  the  Son  of  God.  And 
there  was  Hell  beneath  us,  in  which  all  men  who 
were  not  Christians  must  go  at  death,  for  perpetual 
torment. 

This  was  the  Universe  that  I  lay  in,  and  faced 
and  measured  my  relations  to,  that  summer  night, 
when  I  was  twelve.  It  was  still  early  summer — 
the  time  before  the  insects  start  their  singing 
through  the  night.  A  light  breeze  sucked  the  mus- 
lin curtains  to  the  window  and  jogged  the  window- 
screen  at  intervals.  Outside  there — in  the  dark 
Silence,  the  White  Church,  the  Earth;  the  deep 
sky, — and  God,  the  Great  Judge,  always  watching ! 

Never  since  have  I  lived  in  a  universe  so  real, 
so  definite,  so  full  of  high  emotions.  Compared 
to  it,  the  one  that  most  of  us  live  in  to-day  is  the 
shadow  of  a  shadow.  But,  of  all  of  it,  that  one 
part,  Hell,  which  was  not  in  the  Universe  that  I 
knew  first,  lacked — in  spite  of  all  the  disturbing 


28  The  Last  Christian 

talk  and  emotion  of  that  year — the  sense  of  reality 
that  the  others  had.  It  was  not  fear  which  drove 
me,  that  summer  night,  to  my  decision  to  become 
a  member  of  the  White  Church.  It  was  the  emo- 
tion of  worship  and  reverence  and  gratitude,  which 
was  taught  me  before  the  time  I  knew  articulate 
speech;  and  which  still,  for  all  of  us,  makes  the 
Heaven  above  us  the  involuntary  goal  of  all  our 
deep  emotions. 

I  had  only  one  cause  for  hesitancy — embarrass- 
ment, the  fear  of  standing  there  before  the  con- 
gregation of  the  White  Church  on  Sunday;  and 
also,  almost  as  great,  my  awe  of  Mr.  Griswold, 
the  minister. 

I  saw  him  nearly  every  day.  They  lived  just 
beyond  the  White  Church.  I  watched  him  tramp- 
ing by  in  all  weather — going  to  services  and  to 
funerals,  with  his  Bible;  carrying  flowers  from  his 
deep  garden  to  the  sick :  alone,  head  down,  talking 
to  himself;  or,  with  his  little  daughter,  head  up, 
striding  down  the  street.  He  was  a  man  of  moods, 
but  always,  in  any  mood,  an  awe-inspiring 
figure  to  me.  I  dreaded  greatly  that  first  visit  to 
him. 

But  at  last,  one  afternoon  in  the  latter  part  of 
June,  I  found  myself — driven  by  an  extraordinary 
effort  of  my  will — at  the  door  of  the  White  Par- 
sonage. The  door  swung  back,  and  the  minister's 
little  daughter  stood  in  the  doorway. 


The  White  Church  29 

"  He's  very  busy,"  she  said  decidedly. 
"  Couldn't  you  come  some  other  time?  " 

"  I  would  rather  see  him  now,"  I  answered.  I 
could  not  face  the  idea  of  repeating,  from  the  be- 
ginning, that  effort  of  dragging  myself  up  the 
gravel  walk  to  the  front  door. 

"  Do  you  have  to  see  him  now?"  she  asked  a 
second  time,  standing  squarely  in  the  middle  of 
the  doorway.  Her  eyes  were  blue-gray — and  as 
fixed  and  determined  in  their  place  as  a  gray  stone 
wall.  But  now  I  had  the  incentive  to  break  by 
them.  I  had  to. 

"  I've  got  to  see  him,  Ceeste;  honestly,  I  have," 
I  repeated.  And  then  she  let  me  in. 

I  had  known  her  all  my  life.  She  was  a  very 
decided  girl,  and  rather  quick-tempered.  She  was 
the  best  runner,  for  a  girl,  in  our  school.  But 
now  she  was  kept  in  the  house  a  great  deal.  Since 
her  mother  had  been  so  sick,  she  had  taken  charge 
of  the  house  herself  considerably,  and  of  her 
father.  He  was  a  very  absent-minded  and  care- 
less man. 

"  All  right,"  said  Celeste  Griswold,  with  a  sigh, 
"  but  he  is  working  on  his  sermon." 

But  now  her  manner  changed.  "  Won't  you 
come  out  into  the  study?"  she  said  politely;  and 
she  left  me  there  while  she  went  upstairs. 

I  sat  there  in  a  big  chair  and  waited  motionless 
— in  that  dim,  impressive  place — that  place  of 


30  The  Last  Christian 

learning  and  study  of  the  man  of  supernatural 
wisdom.  It  was  a  room  full  of  books — all  one 
side  was  books.  I  never  had  seen  so  many  of  them 
anywhere  else.  They  were  brown  volumes,  a  good 
share  of  them,  with  leather  backs;  and  there  was 
a  dry  and  dusty  smell  from  them  which  filled  the 
room.  Over  them  were  pictures — of  old  ruined 
buildings. 

It  was  very  still;  little  sounds  stood  out  clearly. 
Once  or  twice  I  heard  the  coughing  of  Mr.  Gris- 
wold's  wife  upstairs.  And  I  had  a  most  uncom- 
fortable knowledge  of  my  own  heart  beating.  But 
at  last  there  was  the  scrape  of  a  chair  on  the  floor 
above  me  and  the  sound  of  the  minister  coming 
down  the  stairs.  My  heart  thumped  to  hear  it. 
Then  Mr.  Griswold  stood  in  the  white  doorway, 
focusing  his  kindly  eyes  upon  me. 

"  Good  afternoon,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Gris- 
wold. "  What  is,  it  that  you  have  come  to  see 
me  about?  " 

I  stammered  through  the  reason  of  my  call  upon 
him.  My  message  was  difficult  enough;  but  my 
awe  of  the  man  and  the  place  made  me  still  more 
inarticulate.  And  I  was  never  more  surprised 
than  when  I  raised  my  eyes  and  saw  the  effect 
upon  Mr.  Griswold  of  what  I  had  been  saying. 

"I  am  glad,"  he  said — very  solemnly;  but  his 
whole  face  had  lighted  up,  and  the  tone  of  his 
voice  changed  entirely. 


The  White  Church  31 

"  I  am  glad."  He  took  both  of  my  hands  in 
one  of  his,  covering  them.  "  Sit  down,"  he  said; 
and,  as  we  sat  there,  asked  me  a  few  simple  ques- 
tions about  my  faith. 

I  answered  them  as  best  I  could — but  satisfac- 
torily. He  told  me  so. 

Then  suddenly  the  minister  let  go  my  hands, 
stood  up,  and  started  walking  in  the  room.  He 
stopped  abruptly,  and  stood  before  me. 

"  You  can  not  know,  my  boy — but  these  last 
few  days  have  been  a  time  of  awful  struggle  for 
me.  To-day  I  have  been  especially  instant  in 
prayer." 

I  did  not  speak.  I  had  no  idea  how  to  answer 
him — nor  what  the  struggles  of  such  a  man  could 
be. 

And  he  went  on,  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  I  were 
not  in  the  room  at  all : 

"I  have  been  discouraged;  I  own  it.  There 
has  been  hesitation — a  feeling  of  heaviness — I  can- 
not describe  it — in  the  Christian  Church,  here  and 
everywhere.  And  with  young  people  especially. 
But  now — now — I  see !  " 

His  eyes  looked  farther  and  farther  away,  and 
a  sharper  fire  kindled  in  them. 

"  O,  ye  of  little  faith !  "  he  said  suddenly,  and 
struck  his  clenched  fist  on  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

"  And  so  you  see,  Calvin,"  he  said  at  last,  his 
eyes  returning  to  me,  "  I  am  very  glad — glad  and 


32  The  Last  Christian 

humble  for  what  you  have  told  me — for  the  thing 
that  I  have  seen  to-day." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  I  said  tentatively. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  my  boy,"  he  went  on  buoyantly, 
"  what  we  will  do.  My  daughter  is  ready  to  join 
the  church.  You  two  shall  join  it  together.  It 
will  be  a  day  of  joy  for  all  of  us."  His  eyes  shone 
with  affection  as  he  spoke  of  Celeste.  .They  al- 
ways did. 

He  talked  to  me  then  as  I  had  never  been  spoken 
to  before — as  an  adult  and  an  equal.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  the  experience  must  be  an  incident  of 
the  new  state  of  life  that  I  was  assuming.  But 
he  spoke  particularly  of  the  events  that  I  would 
see  in  my  life  and  he  would  not. 

"  I  have  never  known  such  years,"  he  said,  "  as 
these  that  we  are  passing  now.  New  attacks  every 
day,  strange  faiths,  strange  gods — yes,  literally, 
my  boy — those  who  proclaim  themselves  as  gods. 
I  could  tell  you,  Calvin —  -"  he  said,  and  stopped. 

"  My  boy,"  he  went  on,  and  laid  his  hand  upon 
my  knee,  now,  exactly  as  if  I  were  an  adult,  "  you 
will  see  much  greater  changes,  stranger  faiths,  bit- 
terer assaults,  than  I  have  ever  seen.  I  know  it. 
But  you  will  also  see  a  greater  triumph. 

"  Remember  that — always !  The  greater  the 
assaults,  the  greater  at  the  end  will  the  triumph 
be." 

It  was  a   long  time  before  he  dismissed  me 


The  White  Church  33 

finally.  The  afternoon  shadows  of  the  elms  had 
shifted  greatly  on  the  sidewalks  when  I  went  out. 

I  was  naturally  under  great  emotion  when  I 
left,  and  when  I  saw  across  the  wide  roadway 
Miss  Avery  upon  her  piazza,  lying  among  her 
pillows,  I  could  not  keep  myself  from  going  over 
to  her.  There  were  few  people  whom  I  would 
have  told  my  news  to.  But  I  felt  that  she  should 
know. 

Miss  Avery  had  taught  me  in  the  basement  of 
the  White  Church,  since  I  had  gone  there  a  child 
of  five.  She  was  a  little  woman,  very  neat,  and 
very  highly  educated.  She  was  the  greatest  reader 
in  all  the  White  Church.  But  what  I  remembered 
best  of  her  always  were  her  eyes — bright,  restless 
eyes  like  a  bird's,  in  a  dull  white  face;  and  hands 
that  were  never  quiet. 

For  several  months  now,  Miss  Avery  had  not 
taught  us.  She  was  often  ill — recently  she  had 
been  very  sick.  And  for  several  hours  each  day 
she  sat  upon  her  porch,  as  she  was  sitting  now. 
The  strange  cousin,  from  Boston,  who  had  come 
to  take  care  of  her,  was  with  her,  reading  aloud, 
as  usual — her  frizzled  head,  parted  carefully 
through  the  middle,  bent  down  over  the  book 
which  they  were  always  studying  together.  She 
stopped  when  I  approached,  and  fixed  on  me  her 
calm  and  mirthless  smile. 

I  realized  too  late  how  far  my  enthusiasm  had 


34  The  Last  Christian 

driven  me.  It  was  extremely  distasteful  for  me 
to  tell  Miss  Avery  of  my  intention  before  this 
stranger.  But  I  had  gone  too  far  to  avoid  it  now. 

"  That's  very  nice,  Calvin,"  Miss  Avery  said, 
when  I  had  spoken.  "  Your  grandmother  will 
be  so  pleased."  And  she  increased,  by  a  very 
little,  the  smile  that  now  lay  always  on  her  face. 
But  that  was  all.  And  after  that  there  was  silence. 
She  was  lukewarm — only  too  obviously.  I  could 
not  understand  it,  and  my  enthusiasm  was  suddenly 
and  most  unexpectedly  chilled.  Finally  I  turned 
and  went  away. 

The  two  women  turned  their  strange  smile  upon 
me  as  I  left — a  smile  perpetually  alike,  I  thought, 
on  both  of  their  faces.  And,  before  I  was  out 
of  the  yard,  I  heard  the  dry,  monotonous  voice 
of  the  cousin,  Mrs.  Thursby,  reading  from  their 
book. 

I  was,  in  fact,  considerably  surprised  at  the  lack 
of  interest  which  this  change,  that  caused  such 
a  stress  of  emotion  in  myself,  occasioned  in  others. 
My  grandfather,  even,  said  very  little  of  it  to  me. 
And  though  several  older  people  did  speak  of  it 
to  me,  they  seemed  more  often  to  be  talking  in 
a  spirit  of  mere  forced  politeness  than  from  real 
enthusiasm. 

I  remember,  in  particular,  meeting  Mr.  Tubbs, 
the  organist.  He  was  a  little,  thick-set  man  with 
a  heavy  mustache, — a  very  friendly,  talkative  men, 


The  White  Church  35 

who  always  wore  an  Odd  Fellow's  badge  upon  his 
coat  lapel. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Mr.  Tubbs,  "  so  you  are 
going  to  join  the  Church,  Calvin.  Well,  well !  " 

That  was  all  he  said.  But  many  of  the  other 
expressions  seemed  to  me  almost  as  vacant. 

One  day,  I  remember,  Mrs.  Judd  addressed  me 
in  her  quavering  voice. 

"The  young  must  take  our  places;  the  young 
must  take  our  places.  We  shall  soon  be  gone !  " 
she  said.  And  asked,  as  usual,  most  solicitously 
for  my  grandmother's  health. 

She  seemed  old.    They  all  seemed  old. 

But  then,  I  remember  clearly — not  exactly  as 
you  remember  realities,  but  as  you  recall  a  very 
vivid  dream — the  Sunday  morning  on  which  I  was 
admitted  to  the  White  Church.  I  was,  in  fact,  in 
a  state  of  intense  nervousness,  which  placed  me  in 
a  kind  of  daze. 

The  White  Church  was  filled  with  the  serious 
congregation  of  my  boyhood — the  staid,  respect- 
able citizens  and  heads  of  families  at  the  opening 
of  their  pews;  at  the  other  end  their  wives;  and, 
in  the  interval  between  them,  their  families,  or,  in 
the  case  of  older  people,  a  vacant  space  where  the 
families  had  been.  All  very  stiff  and  clean  and 
serious,  with  the  sense  of  the  Sabbath  heavily  upon 
them.  Across  the  aisle  from  us  I  saw  Mr.  Doty, 
with  his  white  vest  and  Prince  Albert  coat,  and  his 


36  The  Last  Christian 

continual  smile.  Next  to  my  grandfather,  he  was 
the  leading  giver  in  the  White  Church  now. 

On  the  other  side  of  our  pew  sat  the  daughter 
of  the  minister,  Celeste  Griswold — her  russet  hair 
in  sharp  contrast  with  the  immaculate  white  dress 
she  wore.  And  with  her  that  morning  was  her 
mother — a  tall,  pale  woman  with  reddish  hair,  who 
held  her  hand  continually  at  her  throat  to  stop  her 
coughing  during  service.  She  rarely  came  to  the 
White  Church  now,  because  of  this.  That  morn- 
ing she  was  there  only  because  of  the  first  com- 
munion of  her  daughter. 

The  text  that  day  was  from  I  Kings,  Chapter 
1 8,  which  recounts  the  bloody  downfall  and  death 
of  the  priests  of  Baal  before  Elijah.  And  the 
subject  of  the  sermon  was  "  The  Living  God  and 
the  Dead." 

The  minister  was  in  a  different  mood  that  Sun- 
day than  he  had  been  for  many  Sundays  past — 
buoyant,  triumphant,  and  strong.  His  great  voice 
rattled  in  the  four  corners  of  the  room  as 
he  rehearsed  the  tragic  downfall  of  the  dead 
gods. 

I  wondered  vaguely  about  the  gods  that  were 
dead.  I  was  too  nervous  really  to  think.  I  was 
deeply  and  genuinely  moved  by  the  ceremony 
which  lay  before  me.  But  my  mind  dwelt  chiefly, 
I  must  admit,  upon  the  awful  progress  alone  up 
the  aisle  that  was  to  follow  on  the  ending  of  the 


The  White  Church  37 

sermon.  It  came  at  last.  The  voice  of  the  min- 
ister aroused  itself  for  the- closing. 

"  We  fret,"  he  cried.  "  We  worry.  We  are 
greatly  troubled.  'How  long? 'we  cry.  'How 
long?  Is  the  coming  of  Thy  kingdom  to  be  de- 
layed forever.'  And  God  replies : '  What  are  your 
times  to  me?  A  year  is  a  day  in  mine  eyes  and  a 
thousand  years  a  watch  in  the  night.  All  will  come 
right  in  my  good  pleasure.' 

"  And  then,  if  we  will  only  watch,  we  too  can 
see  the  progress  for  ourselves. 

"  Where  now  are  the  dead  gods  of  the  heathen? 
Where  is  Baal  or  Buddha?  And  where  are  now 
Confucius  and  Mohammed?  Gone  forever — gone 
or  fast  fading  from  the  earth.  And  never  passing 
faster  than  they  are  to-day. 

"  But  we  Christians,  we  know  whereof  we 
speak !  We  have  assurances  that  can  never  be  con- 
founded. Eternal  in  the  heavens  sits  the  Chris- 
tian's God.  Of  Him  forever  sounds  the  Psalm- 
ist's triumph :  '  From  everlasting  to  everlasting, 
Thou  art  God.'  " 

He  was  done.  We  sang  a  hymn,  turning  about 
and  facing  toward  the  choir  and  the  broad  back 
of  Mr.  Tubbs  at  his  organ.  And  I  realized,  al- 
most with  a  sense  of  paralysis,  that  the  time  had 
come  when  I  must  go  alone  up  the  aisle  to  the  place 
before  the  pulpit. 

I  remember  the  ceremony  most  indistinctly — 


38  The  Last  Christian 

the  short,  confused  answers  that  I  made;  the  twist- 
ing pattern  of  white  lines  in  the  red  ingrain  carpet, 
that  my  eyes  were  cast  upon;  the  sturdy  figure  of 
the  girl  beside  me,  answering  clearly  and  distinctly, 
and  looking  steadily  in  the  eyes  of  her  father. 
And,  at  the  end,  the  sound  of  the  voice  of  Mr. 
Griswold  praying  for  God's  blessing  on  "  these 
Thy  young  servants." 

It  was  over.  I  passed  down  the  aisle  again, 
stumbling  into  the  entrance  of  the  pew.  I  took 
with  great  reverence,  but  an  overwhelming  sense 
of  relaxation  and  relief,  my  first  communion. 
Then  the  congregation  left  the  church,  and  I  es- 
caped, as  quickly  as  I  could,  the  handshakes  and 
the  smiles  of  the  older  members. 

That  afternoon  I  read  again  beside  my  grand- 
mother in  her  bed-chamber.  Never  had  I  passed 
so  willingly  into  the  quiet  and  inactivity  of  a  long 
New  England  Sunday  afternoon  as  after  the  strain 
and  emotion  of  that  morning. 

A  horse  stamped  somewhere  in  a  stable.  A 
warbling  vireo  trailed  its  intermittent  little  ara- 
besque of  song  in  the  elm  trees.  Occasionally  we 
heard  the  hollow  note  of  a  crow  in  the  distance. 
Across  the  street,  we  could  see  Miss  Avery  and 
Mrs.  Thursby  reading  from  their  book. 

My  grandmother  seemed  more  than  usually 
happy  and  well  to  me  that  afternoon.  It  was 
probably  the  very  fact  that  she  had  heightened 


The  White  Church  39 

color  which  made  me  think  so.  I  had  no  idea 
that  she  would  have  that  worst  of  all  her  attacks 
that  night. 

I  was  awakened  again  late  in  the  night  by  the 
sound  of  men's  voices.  I  saw  again  a  light  upon 
the  grass  below  the  lower  windows.  And  I  knew 
that  the  doctor  had  come  once  more. 

I  scarcely  had  got  to  the  head  of  the  stairs  when 
my  grandfather  came  up  to  me. 

"  You  must  come  down  and  see  your  grand- 
mother," he  told  me.  "  She  is  very  sick." 

I  could  hear  her  breathing.  I  was  afraid  to 
go  into  the  room. 

She  lay  there  in  the  great  bed,  beneath  the 
dark  steel  engraving  of  the  Crucifixion,  with  its 
figures  in  pain.  It  seemed  impossible  for  anything 
human  to  be  so  small  and  thin  and  frail.  Her 
smooth  hair  was  dishevelled  about  her  forehead. 
The  wrinkles  from  across  her  face  centered  upon 
her  sunken  mouth.  Her  withered  neck  moved 
with  difficulty  in  her  breathing.  She  seemed  to  be 
repeating  something. 

"  Speak  to  her,"  said  my  grandfather. 

I  was  greatly  embarrassed;  I  did  not  know  what 
to  say.  I  kissed  her  on  her  cold,  wet  lips.  She 
reached  out  her  thin  hand  weakly  to  take  mine, 
and  tried  to  smile. 

My  grandfather  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
watching  her. 


4o  The  Last  Christian 

Then,  all  at  once,  she  pushed  me  feebly  from 
her.  "  Not  that  one,"  she  whispered  faaintly. 
"  Not  that  one."  And  at  once  she  was  off  mutter- 
ing again. 

"  She  is  counting,"  said  the  doctor. 

That  was  it. 

"  Counting  eternity  again,"  he  said. 

"  You  may  go  now,  Calvin,"  said  my  grand- 
father. 

He  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed — saying  noth- 
ing, doing  nothing.  His  black  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  face  upon  the  pillow.  Under  his  black 
beard,  the  muscles  of  his  jaw  worked  continually. 

I  started  out. 

"  We  will  try  it  now,"  said  the  doctor.  "  It 
will  do  no  harm." 

I  left  the  room.  I  looked,  I  thought,  for  the 
last  time  upon  my  grandmother.  If  this  was  not 
the  end,  it  seemed  certain  that  it  could  not  be  long 
coming. 

But  I  was  wrong.  That  night  she  lived,  and 
after  that  she  was  kept  living  many  months. 
Something  new  was  coming  into  the  world.  We 
were  still  to  learn  of  the  power  of  the  New  Book 
that  the  two  women  were  reading. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  SECRET  BOOK 

YOU  who  are  New  England  born  and  bred 
will  remember,  certainly,  the  two  sharp  di- 
visions of  the  Earth  that  God  gave  Man 
to  live  in.  On  the  one  side  the  province  of  the 
adults,  on  the  other  the  country  of  the  young. 
The  boundary  between  these  was  by  no  means  to 
be  crossed.  But,  beyond  that  invisible  barrier, 
we  watched  our  elders  move  about  their  own  es- 
pecial affairs,  like  people  in  a  play.  We  saw,  but 
were  not  shown;  we  heard,  but  were  not  told. 
And  it  was  so,  necessarily,  that  I  learned  all  that 
I  did  learn  of  the  progress  and  nature  of  this  book. 

For  three  months,  or  more,  the  two  women  sat, 
every  pleasant  afternoon,  on  Miss  Avery's  porch, 
alone — Miss  Avery  smiling,  and  resting;  Mrs. 
Thursby,  the  cousin  from  Boston,  reading  aloud 
from  her  book.  I  could  hear  the  murmur  of  her 
reading  from  our  windows. 

After  that,  I  saw,  Miss  Avery  waited  upon  the 
porch;  and  Mrs.  Thursby,  in  her  close  bonnet  and 
purple  velvet  dress,  went  visiting  in  other  houses 
— carrying  her  book  under  her  arm.  And  finally 
I  knew  she  was  going  in  and  out  the  house  of  the 
41 


42  The  Last  Christian 

woman  with  the  weakened  spine — the  black  un- 
painted  house  toward  the  end  of  the  street,  where 
the  houses  trailed  out  into  the  open  fields. 

She  went  with  her  book  in  and  out  of  that  house, 
that  was  so  different  from  all  our  other  houses. 
It  was  damp  and  black,  with  rotted  clapboards, 
while  all  the  rest  were  white  and  clean.  The 
family  that  lived  there  was  very  poor.  But  the 
special  mark  upon  it  was  the  knowledge  of  that 
bedroom  in  the  second  floor,  in  which  had  lain  that 
woman,  bedridden  now  for  twenty  years.  There 
was  never  a  sound  from  that  room;  never  a  face 
at  the  window.  In  summer-time  the  windows  were 
partly  open.  And  I  glanced  up  quickly,  as  I  passed 
it,  and  saw,  with  a  half  shudder,  a  little  patch  of 
the  coarse  ceiling  at  which  I  knew  that  woman, 
motionless  but  alive,  had  been  staring  for  longer 
than  I  had  lived. 

But  now,  after  Mrs.  Thursby  had  been  there, 
this  woman  sat  up.  I  saw  her  sitting  there, 
propped  up  by  the  window,  like  a  great  yellow 
wax  doll,  with  blue  lips.  And  from  that  time  on 
every  one  was  talking  of  Mrs.  Thursby  and  her 
book. 

Nearly  every  one,  I  should  have  said.  For  we 
kept  silence  on  that  subject  before  my  grand- 
father. I  knew,  from  the  first,  that  he  hated  it. 
I  had  never  seen  the  book.  I  had  the  vaguest  of 
ideas  about  it.  But  the  thing  was  in  the  air;  and 


The  Secret  Book  43 

away  from  our  house  I  talked  of  it,  as  the  rest 
did.  I  discussed  it  often  with  Celeste  Griswold 
on  our  way  to  high  school  in  the  village — partly 
in  earnest,  partly  to  see  Celeste  become  excited 
over  it. 

"  Do  you  think  she  did  really  cure  her,  reading 
from  that  book?"  I  asked  Celeste. 

"You  know  what  I  think!  "  Celeste  Griswold 
answered.  "  It's  blasphemy  and  nonsense.  It 
ought  to  be  burned  up,  all — every  copy  of  it!  " 

The  color  rushed  to  her  face,  and  she  stopped 
talking.  And  I  laughed.  I  did  not  take  it  very 
seriously  then.  But  it  did  seem  to  me,  in  my 
heart,  blasphemous  that  a  woman  should  write 
a  book  to  take  the  place  of  the  Bible. 

After  that,  two  or  three  more  women  began 
to  go  to  Miss  Avery's,  to  hear  the  reading  of  the 
book,  and  to  repeat  the  special  prayers  they  had. 
If  you  watched,  you  could  almost  tell  them  by 
their  expression.  For  they  all  began  to  wear 
that  smile — that  odd,  distant,  image-like  expres- 
sion which  I  had  seen  first  upon  Miss  Avery's 
face  while  Mrs.  Thursby  read  her  book. 

Miss  Avery  sat  by  Mrs.  Thursby  as  she  read, 
and  welcomed  the  other  women  as  they  came  in. 
I  saw  her  do  so  often.  And  she  now  wore  a  pink 
dress — all  pink,  and  a  pink  ribbon  in  her  hair, 
instead  of  that  neat  black  gown  she  had  always 
worn  before. 


44  The  Last  Christian 

That  was  the  first  thing  that  I  had  ever  heard 
my  grandfather  speak  of. 

"  It  was  Joe  Crosby's  color,"  my  grand- 
mother answered  him.  "  He  always  liked  her 
in  it." 

"  It  makes  her  look  a  hundred  years  old,"  said 
my  grandfather. 

"  It  is  a  very  trying  color  for  any  one,  Mr. 
Morgan,"  my  grandmother  answered. 

"  Too  bad  he  died.  She'd  made  him  a  good 
wife,"  said  my  grandfather.  "  Instead,  look  at 
her  now — an  old  maid  gone  crazy  on  this  female 
religion." 

"  They  say  it's  helped  her,"  said  my  grand- 
mother softly. 

"  Fol-de-rol,"  said  my  grandfather.  "  Wom- 
an's nonsense." 

My  grandmother  did  not  answer  him.  She 
never  did,  when  he  felt  about  anything  the  way 
he  did  about  Mrs.  Thursby  and  her  book. 

My  grandmother  was  an  invalid  now,  after  that 
last  night  when  she  was  so  sick — a  little  better 
sometimes;  sometimes  down  with  a  relapse.  She 
sat  most  of  her  time  in  her  bedroom — beneath  the 
picture  of  my  father.  They  would  have  taken  it 
away,  I  think,  if  they  had  dared.  But  that  she 
would  not  allow.  But  they  had  taken  her  two 
books — her  Bible  and  her  Concordance.  For  her 
mind  must  be  kept  off  that  old  excitement — that 


The  Secret  Book  45 

fear,  which  had  overcome  her  in  that  year  when 
every  one  talked  of  Hell.  That  was  done  now. 
We  heard  no  more  of  it — in  our  house,  at  least. 
The  Great  Crisis  of  the  Earth  was  gone  as  if  it 
never  had  existed,  and  had  left  not  an  echo  be- 
hind. 

Afternoons,  when  school  was  done,  Celeste 
Griswold  quite  often  would  come  over  and  sit 
with  my  grandmother,  and  study  or  read  to  her. 
Celeste  was  like  her  father  in  that  way.  She  had 
gone  with  him  often,  since  she  was  a  very  little 
girl,  when  he  visited  sick  people.  Now  she  often 
went  alone.  She  was  a  good  reader — clear  and 
steady.  When  my  grandmother  wanted  reading, 
she  read;  when  she  wanted  quiet,  Celeste  would 
study.  She  had  a  new  idea  now — Celeste:  she 
was  going  to  college.  She  had  given  her  whole 
soul  to  it. 

"  My  father  went  to  college,  and  his  father. 
Just  because  I  am  a  woman,  do  you  think  I  shall 
be  robbed  of  it?"  she  said.  "  I'd  go,  if  I  had 
to  crawl  there  on  my  hands  and  knees." 

She  made  me  mad,  the  way  she  studied. 

"  Do  you  know  what  book  it  is  your  grand- 
mother reads  and  hides?  "  Celeste  Griswold  asked 
me  suddenly,  one  day. 

That  was  the  first  hint  I  had. 

"  It's  the  Bible,"  I  said,  guessing. 

"  No,"  said  Celeste. 


46  The  Last  Christian 

"  Then  it's  the  Concordance,"  I  said. 

"  No,  it  isn't,"  said  Celeste  positively.  "  It's 
something  else." 

But  I  still  thought  that  she  was  wrong. 

I  watched,  myself,  after  that.  It  was  true. 
There  was  a  book  my  grandmother  was  reading. 
Once  I  saw  it — a  bunch  under  the  bedclothes  in 
the  bed  near  her  chair.  Once,  when  I  was  in  the 
yard  outside,  I  looked  in  and  saw  her  plainly,  with 
a  book  in  her  lap,  following  the  lines  slowly  with 
her  forefinger.  So  I  knew  she  was  reading  again. 
And  I  was  anxious.  For,  naturally,  I  still  thought 
she  was  reading  the  texts  on  Hell  again  in  her 
Bible. 

I  don't  know  how  long  it  was  before  I  knew 
more — weeks,  months  perhaps.  But  then,  one 
afternoon,  I  came  home,  and  started  out  to  my 
grandmother's  bedroom,  and  there  was  some  one 
in  there — with  the  door  closed.  I  stopped  outside, 
not  knowing  what  to  do;  for  that  door  was  almost 
never  closed.  And,  as  I  stood  there,  I  realized 
that  Miss  Avery  was  inside,  reading. 

"My  poor  head!"  said  my  grandmother,  in- 
terrupting her.  "  I'm  afraid — I  am  afraid  I  don't 
understand  it." 

"  Only  eat  of  the  Little  Book,"  said  Miss 
Avery's  patient  voice.  "  Only  keep  eating  of  the 
Little  Book.  Listen  " — I  heard  the  sound  of  slip- 


The  Secret  Book  47 

ping  leaves.     "  Hear  what  it  says."     She  read 
again: 

"  '  St.  John  writes  in  the  tenth  chapter  of  his 
book  of  Revelation:  "And  I  saw  another  mighty 
angel  come  down  from  heaven,  clothed  with  a 
cloud;  and  a  rainbow  was  upon  his  head,  and  his 
face  was  as  it  were  the  sun,  and  his  feet  as  pillars 
of  fire;  and  he  had  in  his  hand  a  little  book  open; 
and  he  set  his  right  foot  upon  the  sea,  and  his  left 
foot  on  the  earth."  ' 

"  Now  see  what  it  says,"  said  Miss  Avery,  more 
loudly,  and  read  on: 

"  '  The  angel  or  message  which  comes  from 
God,  clothed  with  a  cloud,  prefigures  divine 
Science.  To  mortal  sense,  Science  seems  at  first 
obscure,  abstract  and  dark.  [Miss  Avery  re- 
peated this  sentence  twice.]  But  a  bright  promise 
crowns  its  brow.  When  understood,  it  is  Truth's 
prism  and  praise.1  " 

It  seemed  strange  to  me,  I  must  say — stranger 
even  than  the  Book  of  Revelation  itself.  For  now 
I  realized,  of  course,  that  I  was  listening  to  the 
reading  of  the  book  of  the  new  religion,  founded 
by  the  woman  of  Boston. 

"  You  see !  "  Miss  Avery  went  on.  "  And  now, 
here!  "  she  said  eagerly,  and  read  again: 

'  Then  will  a  voice  from  harmony  cry,  "  Go, 
and  take  the  Little  Book — Take  it,  and  eat  it  up, 
and  it  shall  make  thy  belly  bitter,  but  it  shall  be 


48  The  Last  Christian 

in  thy  mouth  sweet  as  honey."  Mortals,  obey  the 
heavenly  evangel.  Take  divine  Science.  Read 
this  book  from  beginning  to  end.' 

"  You  see,"  said  Miss  Avery,  breaking  off. 

"  Yes,"  said  my  grandmother,  "  I  think  I  do. 
Only  my  poor  head.  Only  I  worry  so." 

"  But  you  mustn't,  dear,"  said  Miss  Avery. 
"  You  mustn't  worry.  That's  just  it.  You  must 
eat  of  the  Little  Book — and  it  will  cure  you  of 
that  false  belief — of  your  fear,  as  it  did  me." 

"  Does  it  really  prove  it  isn't  so — that — that 
fear  of  mine?  "  my  grandmother  asked  hesitantly. 

"It  does;  it  surely  does.  It  proves  that  it  is 
error — all  false.  Mortal  error,  and  nothing  else," 
said  Miss  Avery.  "  Oh,  Aunt  Eunice,  read  it — 
read  it!  It  wipes  away  your  fears;  it  brings  you 
peace.  I  know.  It  brought  me  happiness  I  had 
never  had,  not  once — from  that  time  when  my 
trouble  came  to  me." 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  said  my  grandmother 
softly. 

Then  there  was  silence.  And  I  realized,  for 
the  first  time,  that  I  was  standing  there  motionless, 
possessed  with  listening. 

"  You  can't  forget,"  Miss  Avery  was  saying 
very  softly,  "  our  Dear  Leader  is  a  woman.  She 
understands — she  understands  how  women  are !  " 

There  was  another  silence. 

"  Only  read  it,"  said  Miss  Avery  all  at  once. 


The  Secret  Book  49 

"Read  it;  and  repeat  the  words  I  gave  you — 
those  words  that  helped  me  so." 

She  was  getting  up  to  go.  I  must  go  some- 
where myself.  I  dared  not  walk  boldly  in.  So  I 
turned,  and  was  outdoors  in  the  yard  when  Miss 
Avery  left  the  house. 

She  had  gone  but  a  little  time  before  I  was  in 
the  house  again,  and  was  reading  the  Bible,  the 
tenth  chapter  of  Revelation.  It  was  all  there — 
exactly  as  she  had  read  it — the  mighty  Angel,  and 
the  Little  Book,  and  the  command  to  eat  it.  Quite 
naturally,  I  thought  of  this  often,  afterward.  And 
it  did  disturb  me,  in  a  way. 

I  don't  know  that  I  can  quite  describe  the  effect 
my  growing  knowledge  of  that  book  had  on  my 
mind.  It  was  apprehension,  chiefly  apprehension 
that  it  might  be  true.  And,  coupled  with  it,  still 
that  troubled  and  eerie  sensation  always  connected 
with  the  Book  of  Revelation,  with  its  angels,  and 
dragons,  and  jeweled  cities. 

On  its  face,  the  doctrine  semed  absurd  to  me. 
And  yet,  there  were  various  corroborations  of 
it,  always  rising  for  discussion  in  my  mind.  There, 
certainly,  in  the  Bible  was  the  mention  of  the 
Little  Book;  there  was  the  raising  of  the  bed- 
ridden woman.  And,  very  soon,  across  the  bound- 
ary of  silence  that  kept  us  from  the  province  of 
our  elders,  I  could  see  the  disturbance  and  com- 
motion the  book  was  causing  there. 


50  The  Last  Christian 

The  women  who  smiled  had  formed  a  little  con- 
gregation of  their  own  now.  There  were  ten  or 
twelve  of  them,  mostly  members  of  the  White 
Church.  And  on  Sundays  they  turned  in  at  Miss 
Avery's  as  the  thin  stream  of  the  old  congregation 
passed  into  the  church  across  the  street.  It  was 
no  secret,  now,  that  Mr.  Griswold  was  much 
troubled  by  this. 

For  some  time  the  minister  had  been  in  one 
of  his  disturbed  and  gloomy  moods. 

You  could  tell.  He  was  walking  alone  again — 
head  down,  out  through  the  village,  out  often  into 
the  hills.  He  covered  miles  in  a  day.  His  loose 
stride  was  tremendous.  And  at  dusk,  upon  a 
country  road,  as  I  have  met  him,  he  was  a  fear- 
some figure — in  his  long  black  coat,  striding,  ges- 
ticulating sometimes,  and  sometimes  even  talking. 
For  he  made  his  sermons  so,  quite  often. 

His  sermons  for  several  Sundays  had  been  se- 
vere again,  with  that  favorite  gesture  of  his  at 
such  times,  constantly  repeated — the  sudden  pro- 
jecting of  that  long  admonitory  forefinger,  which 
pointed  to  your  very  soul.  And  then  he  preached 
that  sermon  directed  frankly  against  the  new  reli- 
gion of  the  women  who  smiled,  that  sermon  taken 
from  the  text  of  I  Timothy  4:7: 

"  But  refuse  profane  and  old  wives'  fables,  and 
exercise  thyself  rather  unto  godliness." 

"That  was  an  old-timer — that  sermon,"  said 


The  Secret  Book  51 

Mr.  Tubbs,  the  organist,  overtaking  my  grand- 
father on  the  way  from  church. 

My  grandfather  said  nothing. 

"  It's  getting  toward  the  end  of  the  church 
year,"  said  Mr.  Tubbs,  the  organist  "  The  an- 
nual meeting  is  coming  around.  If  you've  noticed, 
he's  been  that  way  the  last  few  years." 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  have,"  said  my  grand- 
father. 

"  You  must  have,"  said  Mr.  Tubbs.  "  You  re- 
member that  year,  two  or  three  years  back,  when 
the  ministers  got  fighting  so  over  Hell.  And  the 
old  man  lost  two  or  three  families  to  the  Brick 
Church  in  the  village  over  it.  The  nearer  the 
annual  meeting  came,  and  the  nearer  the  end  of 
the  year,  the  more  he  kept  on  preaching  those 
old-time  brimstone  sermons — worse  and  worse. 
You  remember  that!  " 

"  I  remember  something  of  the  kind,"  said  my 
grandfather. 

"  He  wouldn't  give  it  up,  would  he — not  if  they 
all  left?" 

"No.  Good  day,"  said  my  grandfather;  for 
we  were  at  our  gate. 

It  was  two  or  three  nights  after  that  when  Mr. 
Griswold  burst  into  our  house — at  nine  o'clock 
at  night. 

"  May  I  speak  to  you,  Mr.  Morgan?  "  he  said. 
"Is  it  too  late?" 


52  The  Last  Christian 

He  had  been  tramping  the  country  roads  again. 
His  boots  were  splashed  with  mud. 

"  No,"  said  my  grandfather.  "  Sit  down." 
And  he  closed  the  door  from  the  sitting-room  to 
the  dining-room,  in  which,  as  usual,  I  sat  study- 
ing my  lessons  for  the  next  day.  Their  earlier 
conversation  reached  me  only  very  little;  but 
gradually  their  voices  rose  and  claimed  my 
attention. 

"How  many  of  them  have  gone?"  I  heard 
my  grandfather  ask  sharply. 

"  Three  families,  anyway — perhaps  one  more," 
said  Mr.  Griswold. 

"  Fools,"  said  my  grandfather. 

I  can  hear  them  still,  if  I  try  to  remember — the 
minister's  big  voice,  the  smart  staccato  speech  of 
my  grandfather. 

"We're  falling  back,"  said  Mr.  Griswold— 
"  membership " 

"  Deficit "  my  grandfather  said. 

"  And  more  than  that — repairs,"  said  Mr.  Gris- 
wold. 

"How  much?"  said  my  grandfather. 
"What?" 

"  Everything,"  said  Mr.  Griswold.  "  For  one 
thing,  it  must  be  painted." 

He  meant  the  church,  of  course.  I  realized  it 
as  he  spoke.  It  was  getting  dingy;  the  paint  was 
peeling  in  some  places.  When  I  had  been  a  little 


The  Secret  Book  53 

boy  it  had  always  seemed  so  white — white  and 
glistening.  You  saw  it  far  down  the  road. 

There  was  a  silence. 

"Where  will  this  stop?"  asked  Mr.  Griswold 
slowly.  "  A  thousand  sects,  a  thousand  little  per- 
sonal religions  are  splitting  up  the  body  of  the 
church  the  world  over.  Where  is  this  going  to 
end?" 

"  They're  crazy,"  said  my  grandfather.  "  The 
women  are  all  going  crazy." 

"Well,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Griswold.  "Perhaps 
that  is  the  most  charitable  way  to  put  it." 

"  Mad  as  a  hatter,"  said  my  grandfather — 
"  all  but  one:  all  but  that  old  she-devil  with  the 
false  front.  She  makes  money  out  of  it.  She 
ought  to  be  run  out  of  town." 

Mr.  Griswold  said  something  I  could  not  hear. 

"  Crazy,"  said  my  grandfather.  "  And  the 
worst  of  it  is,  they're  smuggling  the  thing  in  every- 
where. "  You  can't  tell  when  they'll  bring  it  into 
your  house  or  mine." 

"  Scarcely  that,"  said  Mr.  Griswold. 

"  I'd  like  to  see  them  try  it,"  said  my  grand- 
father, "  in  my  house !  " 

And  very  soon  after  that  Mr.  Griswold  went 
back  home  again. 

Then  and  many  times  afterward  I  would  have 
liked  to  ask  some  older  person  about  this  thing — 
to  get  some  explanation.  Not  that  I  believed  that 


54  The  Last  Christian 

it  was  true.  It  was  the  fear  it  might  be  possible. 
There  were  a  number  of  things  I  had  the  same 
feeling  about,  when  I  was  that  age.  One  of  them 
was  the  coming  of  the  end  of  the  world.  But  no 
older  person  ever  spoke  of  this  book  to  me;  and 
there  was  no  one  whom  I  felt  free  to  ask  about  it. 
So,  as  it  was,  I  discussed  it  with  no  one  but  Celeste 
Griswold. 

She  had,  as  usual,  an  entirely  different  view 
from  mine — on  the  mention  of  the  Little  Book  in 
Revelation,  for  example,  when  I  spoke  to  her 
about  it. 

"  Certainly  it's  in  the  Bible,"  said  Celeste  Gris- 
wold. "  That  wouldn't  prevent  them  from  steal- 
ing it,  would  it?  " 

We  never  looked  at  matters  of  this  kind  alike. 
I  was  speculating,  even  then,  on  problems  of 
various  kinds.  Celeste  never.  What  was  so  with 
her  was  so  with  all  her  heart. 

We  debated  the  matter  of  my  grandmother  and 
her  book.  It  was  pretty  difficult,  we  both  agreed. 
I  hesitated,  in  the  first  place,  to  project  myself  into 
the  affairs  of  older  people.  For,  all  my  life,  I 
had  been  trained  not  to — "  to  be  seen  and  not 
heard."  And,  besides,  I  had  overheard  what  I 
knew.  I  couldn't  play  the  spy  on  any  one.  If 
there  was  any  one  thing  certain  in  the  ethics  of 
fourteen  years,  that  was  it.  And  yet,  we  were 
both  afraid  of  what  might  happen. 


The  Secret  Book  55 

"  It's  your  secret,"  said  Celeste  Griswold.  "  I 
can't  advise  you.  You've  got  to  do  what  you 
think  best." 

"  But  if  she  should  get  worse?  "  I  said. 

"  That's  it,"  said  Celeste. 

But,  as  it  happened,  my  grandmother  did  not 
grow  worse.  She  grew  better.  I  watched  her 
very  closely.  I  could  see  her  lips  moving  once, 
twice,  three  times;  and  then,  gradually,  there 
would  start  to  form  that  peaceful  smile.  Day 
after  day  I  could  see  grow  upon  her  face  that 
distant,  image-like  mask  of  peace  that  Miss  Avery 
and  the  other  women  wore.  And  day  after  day 
she  was  muttering  to  herself  what  I  knew  must  be 
that  formula  Miss  Avery  had  given  her.  I  heard 
it  once,  in  part: 

"  There  is  no  sin,  there  is  no "  Then  I 

lost  it.  But  she  was  saying  it  scores  and  scores  of 
times  a  day. 

It  was  rather  strange,  I  have  thought  since,  that 
my  grandfather  did  not  notice  it.  He  was  usually 
so  quick  to  see  everything.  But  there  was  good 
reason.  That  was  the  year  his  company  was  put- 
ting in  the  first  electric  street  lights  in  the  village 
and  on  the  street.  And  he  thought  of  nothing 
else.  But  all  the  time  he  grew  bitterer  and  bitterer 
against  Mrs.  Thursby  and  her  book. 

We  would  see  her  going  her  deliberate  way  out- 
side our  windows. 


56  The  Last  Christian 

"  The  old  witch,"  said  my  grandfather.  "  See 
her — smuggling  that  book  around!  " 

He  stood  there  watching  her,  his  legs  apart. 

"  By  George,  she'd  better  not  bring  it  here!  " 
he  said. 

And  almost  as  he  said  it,  within  a  minute  or 
two,  my  grandmother  was  chanting  to  herself  that 
formula  she  had  gotten  from  her  and  Miss 
A very : 

"  There  is  no  sin.  There  is  no — death."  I  did 
not  know  it  all  yet. 

My  grandfather  was  especially  excited  at  the 
time  the  woman  with  the  spinal  trouble  had  a  re- 
lapse. The  report  was  that  she  was  dying.  I 
heard  Mrs.  Judd  tell  my  grandfather  of  it,  in  her 
pitiful  voice,  myself. 

"Isn't  it  too  bad?"  said  Mrs.  Judd.  "Too 
bad!  Why  must  they  drag  her  up  to  die?  " 

"  They  ought  to  be  in  jail,  eve*y  one  of  them," 
said  my  grandfather. 

But  the  woman  with  the  spinal  trouble  did  not 
die.  She  was  up  again,  and  once  more  sitting  at 
her  window,  like  a  faintly  smiling  corpse.  But  still 
my  grandfather  talked  no  less  bitterly. 

"  They'll  kill  her  before  they  get  through,"  he 
said  to  the  doctor. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  "  the  doctor  said.  "  She's 
better  now,  isn't  she?  "  He  was  always  joking. 

"  Better,"  said  my  grandfather.     "  She  never 


The  Secret  Book  57 

was  sick.  She  had  no  more  spinal  trouble  than 
I  have." 

"  Who  knows  what  she  had?  "  the  doctor  said. 

My  grandfather  knit  his  brows.  "  Father- 
Mother  God !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  A  female  God ! 
What  blasphemy  will  they  get  up  next?" 

"  Why  not?  "  said  the  doctor.  "  We  have  had 
a  male  God  for  some  time.  Now  the  women  are 
trying  their  hand  at  religion.  I  rather  like  it,  as 
far  as  they've  got." 

"  You  go  too  far  sometimes,"  said  my  grand- 
father curtly. 

"No;  I  mean  it,"  said  the  doctor,  and  smiled. 
"  See  what  they've  done  already.  They've  abol- 
ished Hell,  and  pain,  and  the  Earth — everything 
they  didn't  want — and  moved  in  a  body  into 
Heaven." 

"  A  woman's  Heaven,"  said  my  grandfather. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  and  he  laughed. 
"  That's  right — a  woman's  Heaven — no  pain,  no 
death,  no  separation — an  eternal  family  reunion, 
with  all  the  children  home." 

"  You  can  make  up  your  mind  that  book  will 
never  come  into  my  house,"  my  grandfather  said 
abruptly,  and  stopped  talking. 

The  doctor  merely  smiled.  I  have  often  won- 
dered if  he  didn't  know  then.  My  grandmother 
was  so  changed.  The  hunted  look  was  going  from 
her  eyes;  her  hands  were  quieter;  and  on  her  face 


58  The  Last  Christian 

now  was  settling  permanently  that  mask  of  peace 
of  the  new  faith. 

My  grandfather  was  out  a  great  many  evenings 
now  at  his  business  meetings.  And  my  grand- 
mother and  I  were  alone  in  the  house.  She  sat  with 
me  in  the  dining-room,  where  I  studied  my  lessons. 
And  I  left  her  there  when  I  went  to  bed. 

I  was  abed  and  asleep  that  second  time  when  I 
heard  Miss  Avery  there.  The  sound  of  their 
voices  had  wakened  me.  For  the  door  into  the 
dining-room  at  the  foot  of  the  back  stairs  had  been 
left  ajar,  and  I  cpuld  hear  perfectly  what  went 
on  there. 

"  It  troubles  me — it  troubles  me  still,"  my 
grandmother  was  saying.  "  More  than  all  the 
rest." 

"Tell  her;  instruct  her,"  said  Miss  Avery. 
Then  there  was  a  pause. 

"  Hell,  Hades,  Sheol — yes,  they  have  troubled 
us,"  said  another  voice,  calmly  and  deliberately. 
I  lay  awake,  listening  intently;  for  it  was  the  voice 
of  Mrs.  Thursby. 

"  But  now  we  know,"  she  went  on.  "  Hell  is 
nothing — nothing  but  another  name  for  Error. 
Error,  that  is  all — supernal  Error." 

She  paused.  I  could  smell,  even  from  where 
I  lay,  the  rather  strong  perfume  that  she  always 
wore. 

"Death,  too,"  she  went  on;  "that  is  another 


The  Secret  Book  59 

of  our  names  for  Error.  Both  are  simply  poor 
mortal  belief.  You  take  that  poor  woman  with 
the  broken  spine.  Twice  now,  mortal  Error — 
what  we  have  wrongly  called  death — twice  this 
mortal  Error  has  claimed  her  for  its  own.  And 
twice  we  have  contradicted  it.  We  have  overcome 
the  false  with  the  true." 

"  We  cause  our  deaths,  Aunt  Eunice,"  said 
Miss  Avery's  gentle  voice.  "  We  make  our  Hells, 
thinking  they  are  so.  It  is  our  fear." 

"  Read  the  Little  Book,"  said  Mrs.  Thursby. 
"  That  will  show." 

"Oh,  I  have  read;  I  have,"  said  my  grand- 
mother hurriedly.  "  And  I  have  found  peace  in 
it — wonderful  peace.  But  sometimes  I  think — 
my  head,  you  know,  my  head.  I  don't  quite  seem 
to  understand  it — quite.  And  then  that  all  comes 
back  on  me  again." 

"  Fear,"  said  Mrs.  Thursby  loudly.  "  Mortal 
fear.  Contradict  it." 

"  I  do  so,"  said  my  grandmother  weakly. 

"  We  have  little  time,"  said  Miss  Avery. 

"  Contradict  it;  contradict  it;  that's  all!  "  said 
Mrs.  Thursby.  "  Now  see !  I  have  marked  the 
pages — so.  Read  them — in  this  order." 

"  We'd  better  go  now,"  said  Miss  Avery. 

"Read  them,"  said  Mrs.  Thursby.  "And 
when  your  Error  arises,  deny  it!  contradict  it 
firmly,  and  repeat: 


60  The  Last  Christian 

'  There  is  no  sin;  there  is  no  sickness;  there  is 
no  death.'  " 

There  it  was  at  last,  Miss  Avery's  full  formula. 
"  Ah,"  said  my  grandmother,  with  a  sharp  in- 


"  And  no  Hell,"  she  added  softly. 

"  And  no  Hell,"  repeated  Miss  Avery  quickly. 

"  It  is  all  false — all  false — all  but  the  mere  evi- 
dence of  the  senses.  False,"  said  Mrs.  Thursby 
loudly,  "  I  deny  it.  You  must  do  the  same." 

"  We  must  be  going  now,"  said  Miss  Avery. 

"All  false,"  said  Mrs.  Thursby,  getting  up. 
"  All  to  be  contradicted.  There  is  no  death;  there 
are  no  senses;  there  is  no  body — no  material  world 
of  sense.  It  is  all,  all  a  dream,  a  picture  painted 
on  the  snow.  All  is  God.  And  God  is  All-in-All. 
I  leave  you  this.  God  the  All-in-All.  Good 
night;  I  shall  call  again." 

"  Good  night,"  said  my  grandmother.  "  I  wish 
you  well." 

"  You  mustn't  get  up,  Aunt  Eunice,"  said  Miss 
Avery. 

Not  long  after  they  were  gone,  I  heard  the 
hoofs  of  my  grandfather's  horse  driving  sharply 
back  from  the  village — back  from  the  meeting  of 
the  electric  light  company. 

After  that,  day  after  day,  that  smile  grew 
steadier  on  my  grandmother's  face.  Her  hands 


The  Secret  Book  61 

lay  still  upon  her  lap.  She  sat  there,  rocking, 
smiling  peacefully,  beneath  my  father's  .portrait 
in  her  bedroom;  whispering,  as  I  saw  her  some- 
times, her  contradiction  of  death  and  suffering  and 
Hell. 

She  was  better — I  knew  that — for  weeks  and 
months,  though  she  was  not  strong.  The  doctor 
gave  up  coming  very  often. 

"  There's  nothing  particular  I  can  do.  There's 
no  medicine  I  know  of  that's  of  any  use,"  he  said. 
"  Feed  her  well;  that's  all." 

My  grandfather  asked  him  something. 

"  Oh,  you  can't  tell,"  said  the  doctor. 

But  still  she  was  very  weak.  My  grandfather 
watched  her  pretty  closely. 

I  remember  we  were  driving  home  from  the 
village,  my  grandfather  and  I,  and  Mrs.  Judd 
stopped  us  from  the  sidewalk.  Mrs.  Judd,  with 
her  white  face  and  reddish  eyelids  and  blond  hair, 
almost  as  light  as  an  albino's.  She  walked  out 
into  the  roadway  in  her  eagerness  to  speak  to  us. 

"Oh,  how  is  dear  Mrs.  Morgan?"  she  asked 
my  grandfather.  "  How  is  she  to-day,  Mr.  Mor- 
gan? She  is  so  frail,  so  frail.  Oh,  I  am  so  glad, 
so  glad  to  hear  it.  You  must  take  care  of  her, 
Mr.  Morgan." 

Her  voice  quavered  sharply;  her  false  teeth 
gleamed  brightly — in  an  ecstasy  of  sympathy  which 
was  very  like  a  smile. 


62  The  Last  Christian 

"  That  old  funeral  hag!  "  said  my  grandfather, 
when  we  left  her;  and  said  no  more  before  we 
reached  home. 

I  noticed  that  Mrs.  Judd  always  asked  me,  after 
that,  wherever  she  might  meet  me,  about  my 
grandmother,  with  an  increasing  gusto  of  grief. 

"  Such  a  good  grandmother,  such  a  good  grand- 
mother," she  said,  in  the  accents  of  a  mincing  sad- 
ness. "  You  will  recall  Tier  so  often  when  all  we 
older  people  have  passed  on." 

My  grandfather  was  more  at  home  now.  And 
often  he  sat  in  the  bedroom,  with  my  grandmother, 
reading  his  newspaper — a  thing  he  had  never  done 
before.  Occasionally  he  would  get  up  and  pull 
her  shawl  about  her  shoulders  for  her — awkwardly, 
rattling  his  paper  as  he  sat  down  again.  A  sudden 
flush  would  come  into  the  cheeks  of  my  grand- 
mother. 

She  seemed  very  .little  changed,  I  thought — 
only  very  short  of  breath. 

"  Oh,  nobody  can  tell  anything  about  it,"  said 
the  doctor  the  next  time  he  came  in.  He  still  came 
very  little. 

I  understood,  of  course.  I  was  old  enough  for 
that.  But  no,  I  didn't  really,  either!  No  one — 
not  the  oldest  of  us — can  realize  it  before  it  comes; 
and  certainly  not  a  child. 

My  grandfather  would  lay  his  hand  occasionally 
on  her  shoulder,  as  he  came  in — touch  her  awk- 


The  Secret  Book  63 

wardly  and  suddenly,  and  pass  on.  And  then — 
the  most  curious  change  of  all — he  began  calling 
her  "  my  girl." 

"Well,  how  are  you  to-night,  my  girl?"  he 
asked  briskly,  when  he  came  in. 

"  That's  good,  that's  good,"  he  said  brusquely, 
when  she  answered  him.  For  she  said,  always, 
that  she  was  well. 

That  name  for  her  seemed  so  curious — and  in- 
appropriate— that  old  woman,  my  grandmother! 
How  many  years,  I  have  wondered  since,  had  it 
been  since  that  old-time  endearment  had  been  upon 
his  lips.  She  recognized  it,  I  knew,  even  then. 
A  sudden  flush  of  feeling  gleamed  across  the  ever- 
lasting peace  of  her  face. 

I  was  there,  too,  the  night  when  my  grand- 
father came  back,  bringing  the  vase  from  the 
city. 

"There,  my  girl,"  he  said.  "Look  what  I 
bought  you." 

It  was  a  big  red  vase  with  an  Italian  singing 
girl  painted  on  it. 

"  Oh,  it's  beautiful,"  said  my  grandmother, 
taking  it  in  her  trembling  hands.  "  Beautiful." 

We  had  very  few  ornaments  in  the  house,  and 
none  so  new  and  stylish.  He  took  it  from  her 
and  placed  it  on  a  stand  where  she  could  see  it. 

And  suddenly,  as  he  turned  back,  with  an  abrupt 
and  awkward  motion  he  stooped  and  kissed  her. 


64  The  Last  Christian 

Never  in  my  life  had  I  seen  him  kiss  my  grand- 
mother before.  He  started  stiffly  and  self-con- 
sciously to  straighten  up  again.  But  my  grand- 
mother clung  to  his  arm  with  both  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Morgan,"  she  said—"  oh,  Calvin !  " 
calling  him  by  his  first  name  for  the  first  time  in 
my  memory.  "  Calvin  dear,  can't  we  have  a  good 
long  talk  together — sometime?  " 

She  clung  to  him  like  a  child. 

"  Yes,  yes,  Eunice,"  said  my  grandfather,  em- 
barrassed by  his  position.  "  Sometime,  when  you 
are  stronger." 

"  Sometime — sometime — when  you  are  not  quite 
so  busy — my — Mr. — Morgan,"  said  my  grand- 
mother, and  her  hands  slid  weakly  down  his  arm 
into  her  lap. 

"Yes,  yes,  my  girl;  we  certainly  shall,"  my 
grandfather  said  heartily. 

I  knew  what  she  wanted.  She  was  going  to 
tell  him  of  the  Secret  Book — when  she  had  the 
courage.  She  wanted  very  much  to  do  so.  I 
could  see  her  eyes  following  him  about,  often. 
But  it  required  a  good  deal  of  effort  from  her. 
And  my  grandfather  was  very  busy  and  preoccu- 
pied. And  he  was  so  very  bitter  against  it. 

So  my  grandmother  said  nothing  more.  I 
never  really  saw  her  reading  the  book,  myself. 
She  sat  there  in  her  bedroom,  with  her  perpetual 
mask  of  peace  upon  her  face.  Over  her  head  was 


The  Secret  Book  65 

the  picture  of  my  father — that  dark,  intense  face, 
those  eyes  that  followed  you  about  the  room.  My 
grandmother  sat  there  by  herself  afternoons,  al- 
ways, where  she  could  see  it  easily  by  looking  up. 
It  was  odd;  it  seemed  exactly  as  if  the 
two  were  exchanging  confidences.  She  looked  at 
the  picture  and  smiled  happily.  And  it  stared 
back,  it  seemed  sometimes,  almost  with  an  expres- 
sion of  knowledge  in  its  eyes. 

Over  across  our  lawn,  at  the  home  of  Mr. 
Tubbs,  the  organist,  you  heard  them  practising 
their  music  before  services  and  funerals,  quite 
often.  They  were  practising  there  one  night,  I 
remember.  There  was  to  be  a  funeral  the  next 
day.  And  I  remember  very  well  my  grandfather 
getting  up — he  was  in  the  sitting-room — and 
slamming  down  the  window.  Then  he  walked 
back  and  sat  down  in  the  bedroom  with  my  grand- 
mother, reading  his  paper. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  COMING  OF  MORTAL  ERROR 

THAT  was  the  year,  as  I  said,  that  they  put 
the  first  electric  lights  on  the  street — those 
first  blue,  hissing,  stammering  arc  lights.  It 
was  wonderful,  in  a  way — that  brilliant  light  flow- 
ing through  that  slender  wire;  and  death,  too,  if 
you  should  touch  it.  Just  one  touch — that  was  all. 
It  killed  you.  I  lay  there  in  my  bed  quite  a  little, 
when  the  lights  first  came  on,  and  watched  the 
sharp-cut  shadows  of  the  elm  leaves  upon  the  side 
of  the  White  Church — clean  white  now,  where  be- 
fore it  had  been  faint  blue-white,  just  visible  across 
the  darkness.  It  certainly  did  seem  wonderful — 
at  that  early  time.  It  was  a  time  of  great  changes. 
I  was  getting  older  now.  I  was  fifteen.  And 
already  I  could  see,  with  clearer  understanding 
than  before,  across  the  unseen  but  impassable  bar- 
rier that  separated  the  young  from  the  old.  There 
were  many  changes  there  in  that  other  world  of 
older  people — changes  and  commotion.  I  had 
sensed  it  more  and  more  clearly  since  that  year  of 
controversy  over  Hell — that  year  I  had  joined 
the  White  Church.  It  didn't  trouble  me,  though 

66 


The  Coming  of  Mortal  Error  67 

— not  much.  It  was  one  of  the  concerns  of  my 
elders. 

I  was  unconcerned  enough;  but  it  did  seem  to 
me  that  Celeste  Griswold  was  rather  glum  and 
silent  lately.  And,  for  some  reason,  I  associated 
this  with  the  changes  in  the  church — with  the  worry 
of  her  father. 

I  asked  her  what  it  was,  several  times,  on  our 
way  to  school. 

"  It's  nothing,"  said  Celeste  Griswold. 

"  No;  really,  what  is  it?  "  I  asked  her.  "  Are 
you  sick?  "  For  she  certainly  did  not  look  well. 

"  It's  nothing,  I  tell  you !  "  said  Celeste  Gris- 
wold a  little  sharply,  and  would  not  speak  for  the 
rest  of  the  way  to  school. 

But  I  knew  there  was  something,  by  the  way  she 
acted — her  silence,  if  nothing  else.  She  was  hard 
hit  by  something.  But  she  wouldn't  speak  of  it. 
I  knew  that.  That  was  her  way,  always. 

It  was  her  father,  I  made  up  my  mind — both 
from  her  actions  and  his.  But  I  didn't  realize  just 
what  had  happened  to  them  until  that  second  night 
Mr.  Griswold  came  in  to  see  my  grandfather,  and 
I  heard  them,  from  my  place  in  the  dining-room, 
as  they  talked  it  over. 

Mr.  Griswold  came  in  that  night  very  differ- 
ently from  on  the  one  before.  He  seemed  tired 
and  slow  as  he  shut  the  door  behind  him.  It  was 
some  time  before  he  spoke. 


68  The  Last  Christian 

"  I  want  to  consult  you,  Mr.  Morgan,"  he  said, 
finally,  "  on  financial  matters.  You  are  a  man  of 
business  experience  and  training.  I  value  your 
opinion  highly." 

"  Go  ahead,"  said  my  grandfather. 

"  It  is  somewhat  embarrassing,"  said  Mr.  Gris- 
wold,  hesitating,  "  to  speak  of  your  family  affairs, 
Mr.  Morgan.  I  have  never  done  so,  as  you 
know." 

"  No,"  said  my  grandfather. 

"  But  to-day,"  went  on  the  minister,  stumbling, 
"  there  were  a  number  of  personal  bills  received 
unexpectedly.  And  I  had  no  money  for  them." 

"  What  salary  are  they  supposed  to  pay  you  now 
— twelve  hundred?"  my  grandfather  asked 
abruptly. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Griswold.  "  And,  you  see,  the 
sickness  of  my  wife " 

"How  is  she  now?"  asked  my  grandfather. 
"Is  she  better?" 

"Not  much,  I  am  afraid,"  replied  Mr.  Gris- 
wold. 

"Too  bad;  I'm  sorry,"  said  my  grandfather — 
changing  the  subject  back  again.  "  Are  they  pay- 
ing it  to  you  regularly?  " 

"  That's  it,"  said  Mr.  Griswold,  speaking  a  little 
faster.  "  That's  what  I  wanted " 

"How  much  do  they  owe  you?"  my  grand- 
father interrupted  him. 


The  Coming  of  Mortal  Error  69 

"  It  is  some  five  or  six  hundred  dollars,  I  think, 
now,"  said  the  minister. 

"  What!  "  exclaimed  my  grandfather  sharply. 

Mr.  Griswold  did  not  speak. 

"  That's  a  shame,"  my  grandfather  said.  "  A 
shame!" 

"  No — not  that,  either,"  said  Mr.  Griswold. 
"  That  is  not  just.  It  was  my  own  doing,  partly. 
There  were  those  repairs  that  had  to  be  made, 
you  know — those  few.  I  told  them  I  could  wait. 
But  now " 

"  You  had  no  right  to  do  that,"  said  my  grand- 
father. "  No  right  whatever,  with  your  family 
as  it  is." 

"  Yes,  we  could  do  it,"  answered  Mr.  Griswold. 
"  We  have  cut  down  our  expenses.  We  live  very 
simply.  I  had  hoped,"  he  said,  coughing  a  little, 
"  that  I  could  send  my  girl  to  college.  But  now, 
of  course,  I  can't — in  any  case.  I  have  just  told 
her  so."  He  paused  again.  "  That,  of  course, 
made  some  little  savings  that  I  had  available  for 
us,  but " 

"  You  shall  have  it,  and  you  shall  have  it  right 
^away,"  my  grandfather  said. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mr.  Griswold,  "  I  had  no 
intention,  when  I  came  here — of  asking  for  it  all 
now.  That  isn't  necessary." 

"  You  shall  have  it,"  repeated  my  grandfather. 


70  The  Last  Christian 

"  And  you  shall  have  it  now  I  I'll  see  to  that  my- 
self." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Griswold,  after  a  little  while, 
"  well — I  will  leave  it  with  you."  He  paused 
again.  "  Thank  you !  "  he  said  abruptly,  and  got 
up  and  went  out  the  front  door. 

Now  I  knew  what  was  the  matter  with  Celeste 
Griswold.  I  had  overheard  it,  and  I  couldn't  speak 
of  it  to  her  very  well — though  several  times  I  al- 
most did  so.  And  she  said  nothing  to  me.  She 
was  fighting  it  out  by  herself,  in  her  own  way. 

We  were  working  out  our  two  week-day  creeds 
for  life  then — both  of  us.  That  is  more  than  half 
of  the  requirement  of  childhood,  you  remember. 
The  boys,  I  know,  were  busily  engaged  pounding 
into  me  the  creed  of  a  man — honesty  and  courage 
and  disregard  for  physical  pain.  Celeste  Griswold 
was  acquiring  the  creed  of  a  woman.  I  did  not 
know  it  then.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  know  it  all 
now.  Yet  she  was  learning  it,  I  knew,  and,  I  now 
know,  in  that  hardest  of  schools  for  women — old 
New  England.  And  one  cardinal  point  in  it  with 
her  was  always  silence  under  pain  and  trouble.  It 
was  merely  by  chance  that  I  ever  knew  what  she 
was  going  through. 

I  was  in  our  yard  one  day,  after  school,  work- 
ing at  the  lawn  (for  every  day  I  had  my  work  to 
do  about  the  place),  when  all  at  once,  as  I  was 
standing  near  the  side  of  the  White  Church,  I 


The  Coming  of  Mortal  Error  71 

heard  a  curious  noise  in  it,  repeated  twice,  three 
times.  There  was  a  window  open,  just  a  crack  for 
air.  Urged  by  curiosity,  I  turned  and  went  into 
the  back  entrance  of  the  church.  Unexpect- 
edly enough,  I  found  the  door  had  been  left  un- 
locked. 

I  stood  inside  the  doorway  first,  listening.  The 
oppressive  sense  of  the  place  closed  around  me — 
the  mysterious  hush  of  the  empty  house  of  God, 
the  close  air  of  the  shut  place,  the  dusty  smell  of 
carpets  and  upholstery  and  books,  the  echoes  start- 
ing sharply  at  the  slightest  stir. 

There  was  nothing  moving  in  the  vestry.  There 
was  nothing  there  except  the  chairs  of  various 
sizes,  the  light-colored  hymn-books  on  the  seats, 
the  blackboard  with  the  text  on  it  and  a  star  in 
colored  crayon,  and  the  cabinet  organ — nothing 
there  but  an  expectant  silence.  It  looked  bare  and 
dingy  in  its  emptiness.  The  carpet  was  quite  badly 
worn. 

I  would  have  gone  out  then — discretion  slyly 
plucking  valor  by  the  sleeve — if  I  had  not  heard 
the  slightest  of  sounds  upstairs,  a  sound  like  some 
one  whispering.  With  trepidation  entirely  un- 
worthy of  my  years,  I  crept  carefully  along  up  the 
narrow  stairs  to  the  back  of  the  pulpit  platform. 
I  looked  down  through  the  crack  in  the  door  into 
the  great,  half  lighted,  vacant  room. 

There,  in  her  father's  pew,  crouched  by  the  side 


72  The  Last  Christian 

wall,  was  Celeste  Griswold — her  head  down,  mo- 
tionless. I  watched.  Her  shoulders  moved  once 
or  twice  convulsively — but  she  cried  almost  noise- 
lessly, with  a  sound  scarcely  to  be  heard  in  that 
general  silence.  She  raised  her  head  and  looked 
straight  forward  at  the  pulpit  arch — at  the  place 
where  I  was  standing.  I  shrank  back. 

"  Oh,  make  me  willing,  make  me  willing,  make 
me  willing !  "  she  was  saying  in  a  fierce  and  half 
broken  whisper. 

I  tiptoed  down  the  stairs,  out  of  the  silence,  into 
the  cool  fresh  air  of  outdoors. 

Celeste  Griswold  grew  more  natural  after  that 
— gradually  less  quiet,  more  into  her  own  frank, 
determined,  outspoken  manner;  but  still  she 
seemed  rather  pale. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  child?  "  my  grand- 
father asked. 

"  She's  at  the  time  they  grow  so  very  fast,"  my 
grandmother  said. 

"  She's  generally  so  full  of  life,"  said  my  grand- 
father. 

"  Yes,"  said  my  grandmother. 

No  one  really  knew  but  myself. 

Celeste  was  with  my  grandmother  quite  often, 
afternoons,  reading — studying  just  the  same  as  if 
nothing  had  happened  to  her.  When  it  was  pleas- 
ant now,  they  sat  with  the  French  windows  open 
upon  the  porch,  just  inside  my  grandmother's  bed- 


The  Coming  of  Mortal  Error  73 

room.  Celeste  was  with  her  through  that  spring — 
clear  to  that  last  day. 

I  was  in  a  shrub  on  the  lawn,  I  remember — can 
I  ever  forget? — pruning  it.  The  knife  was  in  the 
air;  I  can  see  it  still.  And  suddenly,  with  that 
strange,  sharp  edge  of  fear  upon  it,  Celeste  Gris- 
wold's  voice : 

"Calvin!" 

The  two  women  across  the  street  on  Miss 
Avery's  porch  let  drop  their  book  and  started  to 
their  feet.  I  dropped  my  shears. 

"Calvin!    The  doctor!" 

That  was  all  she  called.  But  at  her  voice  end- 
less reaches  of  cold  and  terror  rose  before  me. 
My  knees  loosened  under  me.  I  knew.  And 
automatically  I  started,  and  was  running  down 
the  street,  toward  the  doctor's.  I  was  numb;  I 
ran  as  if  I  were  floating  in  the  air.  And  as  I 
passed  out  of  our  yard  I  saw  the  two  women  start- 
ing across  the  street  toward  our  house. 

I  ran  down  the  street,  over  to  the  house  of  the 
doctor.  My  hat  was  gone,  my  hair  was  blowing 
in  the  air.  And  every  now  and  then  I  stumbled. 
The  doctor  was  out — they  did  not  know  where.  I 
ran  on  toward  the  village,  asking  for  him.  No 
one  had  seen  him.  Then  some  one  told  me — look- 
ing at  me  very  strangely,  I  remember — that  he 
had  already  gone  to  our  house.  I  stumbled  back 


74  The  Last  Christian 

again,  some  time  after  I  had  left,  exhausted,  nau- 
seated from  running. 

When  I  arrived,  they  were  already  there  in  the 
sitting-room,  all  standing — Mr.  Griswold  and  my 
grandfather  on  one  side;  on  the  other  the  two 
women,  Miss  Avery  and  Mrs.  Thursby.  All  their 
faces  were  strained  and  drawn,  the  men's  stern, 
the  women's  eager.  Celeste  Griswold  stood  be- 
tween them,  looking  at  my  grandfather.  She  had 
a  little  paper  in  her  hand. 

"  It  was  in  her  dress,"  she  said  distinctly  and  a 
little  loudly.  "  She  took  it  out,  quickly,  like  this, 
and  she  said:  'Mr.  Morgan,  Celeste,  my — Mr. 
— Mr. — Calvin.'  And  then — then,"  said  Celeste 
Griswold,  faltering  a  little,  and  looking  toward 
her  father,  "  she — didn't  speak  again." 

u  Give  it  to  me,"  said  my  grandfather  quickly. 

I  had  come  in  the  back  way,  and  I  stood  like  an 
image,  watching.  No  one  noticed  me. 

My  grandfather  stood  there,  staring  at  the 
paper.  No  one  moved  or  said  a  word. 

"  What's  this?  "  he  said  at  last  "  I  can't  seem 
to  read  it!  " 

"  Take  it,  read  it,"  he  said,  passing  it  suddenly 
to  Celeste. 

She  took  it,  stretching  it  between  her  hands, 
and  started  reading  it.  Her  voice  was  perfectly 
steady  again. 

"  There  is  no  sin,"   Celeste  Griswold  said  in 


The  Coming  of  Mortal  Error  75 

her  clear  reading  voice;  "there  is  no  sickness; 
there  is  no  death.  Read  page  two  hundred  and — " 
She  stopped.  "  I  can't,'  she  said,  "  quite " 

Mrs.  Thursby,  standing  opposite  my  grand- 
father, stepped  forward  quickly — pushing  Celeste 
aside.  She  had  her  book  all  open  in  her  hand. 

"This  is  it;  this  is  what  she  means,"  she  said 
eagerly,  and  started  reading. 

Mr.  Griswold  stepped  out  from  beside  my 
grandfather  and  prevented  her. 

"  This  is  no  time,"  he  said,  and  authority  spoke 
in  his  voice. 

"It  is  just  the  time;  splendid,  wonderful,  a 
message  of  great  peace,"  said  Mrs.  Thursby. 

Then  Miss  Avery  spoke.  "  No,"  she  said,  and 
put  her  hand  steadily  on  Mrs.  Thursby's  arm. 
Her  voice  was  firm,  but  gentle  still.  "  No !  Only 
this,  Mr.  Morgan,"  she  said  softly.  "  This.  She 
tells  you  by  her  message :  there  is  no  death,  there 
is  no  death.  It  is  Error — all  our  mortal  Error. 
Oh,  can't  you  see,  Mr.  Morgan,  nothing  has  hap- 
pened here.  Nothing!  Nothing  but  our  Error — 
nothing  but  our  mortal  Error!  " 

She  grasped  my  grandfather  by  the  sleeve,  and 
her  pale,  eager,  pitying  face  looked  up  to  his.  Her 
pink  dress  showed  against  the  solemn  black  of  Mr. 
Griswold's  coat. 

My  grandfather  did  not  move.  He  stood  there 
with  the  paper  in  his  hand. 


76  The  Last  Christian 

"  How  long  has  this  been  going  on?  "  he  said. 
His  voice  was  as  dry  as  ashes. 

"  For  months.  She  has  been  one  of  us  for 
months !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Thursby. 

Miss  Avery  dropped  my  grandfather's  sleeve. 

"  Come;  we  must  go  now,"  she  said,  and  took 
Mrs.  Thursby  with  her. 

The  two  men  were  left  alone  in  the  room, 
staring. 

Celeste  Griswold,  pushed  aside,  had  turned  and 
looked  at  me.  She  was  forgotten.  Now,  as  al- 
ways, we  saw  our  elders  moving  in  their  own 
world,  upon  their  own  concerns,  without  us.  And, 
put  aside  by  them,  Celeste's  eyes  fell  naturally,  I 
suppose,  on  me.  She  came  out  toward  me.  We 
were  in  our  own  world  again,  they  in  theirs.  I 
sat  down,  as  she  came  near  the  dining-table.  All 
at  once  I  felt  exhausted. 

It  was  not  sorrow  with  me.  It  was  not  fear,  at 
first — though  there  was  fear,  a  great  fear.  But 
principally  it  was  disbelief  in  what  had  happened. 
It  was  not  so.  It  could  not  be !  Such  things  as 
this  did  not  happen.  This  tangible  real  being,  that 
moved  beside  me  and  spoke — the  realest  thing  in 
all  the  world — gone,  nothing!  It  wasn't  true. 
Far  more  plausible  that  I  should  see,  all  at  once,  a 
mountain  back  of  the  town  tip  suddenly  across  the 
valley. 

And  all  the  time  I  had  run,  and  all  the  time  I 


The  Coming  of  Mortal  Error  77 

had  stood  there,  I  thought  nothing  of  religion, 
nothing  of  my  well-learned  land  of  heaven,  nothing 
of  God — excepting  for  one  thing.  I  was  praying 
frantically  to  Him.  But  all  I  asked  Him  was  to 
tell  me  that  it  wasn't  so — that  this  nightmare 
wasn't  true! 

Celeste  Griswold  sat  in  a  chair  beside  me,  and 
took  my  hand  in  hers.  As  she  touched  me,  for 
some  reason,  my  whole  emotion  changed.  Sorrow 
fell  upon  me  like  a  great  flood.  And  I  fell  for- 
ward with  my  forehead  upon  the  cool,  smooth 
table. 

"Don't,"  said  Celeste  Griswold;  "don't." 

Her  hand  held  steadily  in  mine. 

I  did  not  weep  then — though,  after  that, 
Heaven  knows  the  gates  were  loosed.  But  then 
there  was  no  time  for  weeping.  The  grief 
was  too  strong  for  that.  It  took  me  and  shook 
me  in  its  sudden  violence — but  not  into 
weeping. 

Of  the  two  old  men  I  can  remember  little. 
They  stood  there,  I  believe,  with  few  if  any 
words.  What  they  said  I  do  not  know.  I  was 
absorbed  by  my  own  grief.  But  I  do  remember 
Mr.  Griswold  saying  at  last: 

"  God  be  with  you,  Calvin  Morgan,"  and  com- 
ing to  the  door. 

"  I  shall  be  back  again,"  he  said  to  my  grand- 
father. "  Come,  little  daughter,"  he  called  softly. 


78  The  Last  Christian 

Celeste  Griswold  pressed  my  hand  and  stood 
up  as  he  called  her. 

"  You  must  come  now,"  said  Mr.  Griswold. 
"  Yes.  Later  we  will  come  back  for  him."  For 
she  had  evidently  motioned  to  him  about  taking 
me. 

They  went  out  into  the  hall.  I  felt  suddenly  a 
sense  of  great  loneliness  and  fear.  I  sprang  up  and 
stood  looking  at  them — through  the  hall  door. 
Neither  of  them,  I  knew,  could  see  me. 

The  minister  stared  straight  ahead — absorbed 
in  his  own  thoughts — by  the  sharp  crises  in  his 
own  world.  His  face  was  set  and  hardened.  Ac- 
cording to  his  habit,  he  was  muttering  to  him- 
self. 

"  Change,"  I  thought  that  he  was  saying. 
"  Change — a  thousand  changes  everywhere." 

Celeste  walked  silently  beside  him.  She  was 
used  to  his  talking  to  himself.  And  then — by 
chance,  perhaps — he  turned  and  looked  down  at 
her. 

"  Celeste,  my  girl,"  he  said,  "  what  is  it?  Are 
you  faint?  " 

She  caught  him  by  his  sleeve. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said.  "  I'm  not."  But  she 
huddled  closer  to  him  as  she  spoke. 

"You  are  very  white.  What  is  it?"  he  said 
sharply.  "  You  must  tell  me." 

"  Oh,  Father,"  she  said,  and  clutched  his  sleeve 


The  Coming  of  Mortal  Error  79 

again  convulsively,  like  a  little  child  in  fear  of 
the  dark.  "  I  saw — I  saw  her  die !  " 

The  great  figure  of  the  minister  stooped.  He 
lifted  her  lightly  into  his  arms  and  strode  out  the 
door.  I  ran  and  closed  it  after  him. 

I  turned.  My  grandfather  still  stood  in  the 
sitting-room,  with  that  paper  in  his  hand.  In  the 
bedroom  I  could  hear  some  one.  Those  People 
were  in  there — those  Other  People,  already — at 
work. 

And  as  I  stood  there,  listening,  all  at  once  I 
felt  cold  and  strangled.  That  vagrant  fear,  which 
had  come  to  me  at  intervals  in  the  past,  and  was 
to  change  my  world  in  the  future  came  upon  me 
again — full  force. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  VAGRANT   FEAR 

I  STOOD  still  where  it  caught  me — that  fear 
of  mine — for  a  few  seconds,  half  a  dozen 
heart-beats,  motionless. 

Two  hours  ago  my  grandmother  had  been  there 
in  that  room,  and  we  had  been  with  her.  Now  she 
was  alone,  silent,  without  us;  and  those  strangers 
were  there  with  her — those  Other  People.  I  could 
hear  them  talking  softly  at  their  work. 

"  She  isn't  there  at  all,"  my  scared  lips  told  me, 
whispering.  "  She  is  an  immortal  soul — in 
Heaven." 

"What  immortal  soul?"  said  my  fear. 
"What  Heaven?  Just  what  do  you  mean  when 
you  say  that?  " 

And,  quick  with  long  practice,  I  answered  in 
the  old  familiar  words:  "  I  mean  what  everybody 
else  means — the  Heaven  that  God  revealed  to  us 
in  the  Bible." 

There  I  stopped.  I  refused  to  go  one  step 
further.  For  I  knew  my  fear  had  changed  and 
was  on  the  verge  of  reappearing  in  another  shape. 
It  did  so  continually.  I  could  never  grasp  it,  and 
throw  it,  and  hold  it  still.  It  turned,  and  twisted, 
80 


The  Vagrant  Fear  81 

and  slipped  out  of  my  fingers  continually,  a  new 
and  different  thing.  Thank  God,  it  came  only 
rarely,  spasmodically — and  disappeared  again. 

There  was  a  time — it  seemed  already  a  long  way 
past — when  I  lived  in  perfect  peace  and  security 
in  the  Universe  God  had  revealed  to  us.  Its  two 
parts  stretched  together  in  perfect  harmony  and 
reasonableness — the  Heaven  that  the  women  sang 
of,  with  its  angels  and  seraphim  and  golden  streets, 
as  clear  and  certain  as  the  Earth  itself.  All  this 
was  a  part  of  accepted  knowledge  before  that  day 
when  my  fear  first  came. 

I  can  remember  it  as  if  it  were  yesterday.  It 
was  a  rainy  afternoon, — in  the  attic.  I  was  not 
very  old,  yet  not  a  little  child — old  enough  to  read 
quite  well,  I  remember. 

The  rain  drummed  upon  the  roof.  A  pale 
slate-colored  light  shone  through  the  thick  glass 
skylight,  and  died  into  darkness  under  the  eaves. 
There  was  the  warm,  dry,  pungent  smell  of  the 
place,  the  perfect  silence,  broken  very  rarely  by 
the  faintest  creaking  in  the  rafters  or  the  flooring. 
And  everywhere  were  things  hanging  from  the 
sloping  roof — dark,  limp  objects  hanging  in  the 
half  light. 

The  stairway,  the  one  entrance  to  the  attic, 
was  at  one  side.  In  the  center  was  a  great  chim- 
ney, and,  as  you  walked  out  around  it,  there  was 
no  exit  on  the  other  side — merely  a  blind  end, 


82  The  Last  Christian 

quite  black  under  the  eaves.  You  felt  there  some- 
times that  some  one,  coming  from  behind,  might 
possibly  touch  you,  very  softly,  on  the  flesh.  And 
you  must  run,  if  you  could;  if  you  were  not  trapped 
— blindly,  around  the  chimney,  to  the  only  en- 
trance. 

I  stood  there,  searching  for  something — just 
what  I  have  forgotten  long  ago — when  my  eyes 
fell  upon  the  clothing  hanging  from  the  roof. 
Odd,  grotesque,  it  always  seemed  to  me — the 
queer-shaped,  discarded  fancies  of  a  generation 
that  was  gone.  I  had  seen  it  hanging  there,  with  a 
sense  of  half  wonder  and  half  amusement,  all  my 
life. 

My  eyes  passed  over  it  again — the  rows,  the 
groups,  the  little  squads  of  empty  clothing  on  the 
nails.  There  was  a  gay  little  bonnet  quite  near 
me,  and  a  curious  little  silken  wrap — beaded  and 
scalloped.  Beyond  it  a  little  way  hung  a  suit  of 
men's  clothing — gray  clothes,  of  thin  cloth.  They 
hung  straight  down,  limp  and  long,  in  folds  which 
had  fixed  themselves  in  the  fabric.  It  was  the 
clothing  of  a  tall  man.  It  was  my  dead  father's. 
Yes,  that  was  it !  And  the  gay  little  bonnet  must 
have  belonged  to  my  dead  mother ! 

I  stopped,  still  staring.  For  all  at  once  the 
thought  came  over  me: 

"  They  were  living  people  once — alive — in  that 
clothing !  Here  in  this  house,  as  I  am  now ! 


The  Vagrant  Fear  83 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  answering  myself,  in  vague  dis- 
comfort, not  yet  fear. 

Without  a  second's  wait,  that  fear  rushed  on 
me  then. 

"Where  are  they?"  it  asked.  "Where  are 
they  now?  " 

It  was  a  clear,  sharp,  peremptory  question — 
almost  as  if  a  voice  had  spoken  in  that 
silence.  My  fear  had  overtaken  me — that  fear 
that  never  again  in  all  my  life  was  entirely  to 
leave  me. 

I  was  not  a  little  child;  I  was  old  enough  to  have 
some  personal  dignity  to  defend  in  face  of  danger. 
But  this  thing  was  a  panic — a  cry  to  run.  The  per- 
spiration started  on  my  forehead.  I  held  myself 
from  leaping  forward  by  main  force,  but  I  went 
at  once — stiffly,  rigidly — from  the  blind  end  of  the 
attic,  past  the  limply  hanging  clothes,  around  the 
chimney,  under  the  pale  blue  skylight — and  out  at 
last,  and  down  the  stairs. 

After  I  had  gone  downstairs,  I  sat  upon  a  little 
tufted  ottoman  I  used  to  have  in  my  grandmother's 
room.  I  was  alone  in  the  house;  for  some  reason, 
every  one  was  out.  And,  as  I  rested  there,  half 
relieved  and  half  ashamed,  the  question  came  at 
once  again,  peremptory  and  sharp,  just  where  it 
had  been  dropped  before. 

"  Well,  where  are  they?  " 

"  In  Heaven,"  I  repeated  promptly — according 


84  The  Last  Christian 

ot  my  life-long  knowledge.  "  It  says  so  in  the 
Bible — time  and  time  again." 

"Does  it?  Where  does  it  say  so?"  It  was 
like  the  voice  of  another  being  speaking  to  me, 
that  question — like  Martin  Luther's  Adversary, 
exactly,  as  I  had  read  of  him  in  some  book. 

"  Everywhere,"  I  said,  answering. 

"  That's  no  answer !  "  said  my  Adversary. 

My  pulse  raced  at  this  a  little,  for  I  did  not 
remember  immediately  what  the  Bible  said.  I  rose 
abruptly,  and  took  up  my  grandmother's  Bible. 
And,  as  I  did  so,  almost  by  inspiration  I  thought 
of  the  text  Mr.  Griswold  read  so  often — the  reve- 
lation of  the  Holy  City  which  John  saw  in  his 
vision  on  the  Isle  of  Patmos.  I  turned  to  it  at 
once,  for  I  knew  it  was  almost  the  last  thing  in 
the  Bible;  and,  in  the  space  of  a  few  seconds,  I 
was  whispering  over  to  myself  the  verses  that  I 
half  knew  by  heart  already: 

"  And  I  saw  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth : 
for  the  first  heaven  and  the  first  earth  were  passed 
away;  and  there  was  no  more  sea. 

"  And  I  John  saw  the  holy  city,  New  Jerusalem, 
coming  down  from  God  out  of  heaven,  prepared 
as  a  bride  adorned  for  her  husband. 

"  And  I  heard  a  great  voice  out  of  heaven  say- 
ing: Behold,  the  tabernacle  of  God  is  with  men, 
and  he  shall  dwell  with  them,  and  they  shall  be  his 


The  Vagrant  Fear  85 

people,  and  God  himself  will  be  with  them,  and 
be  their  God. 

"  And  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  their 
eyes;  and  there  shall  be  no  more  death " 

I  stopped,  looking  far  away.  Oh,  what  relief! 
A  great  surge  of  emotion  passed  over  me.  There 
it  was,  plainly,  not  to  be  denied — in  the  Bible 
itself.  The  Heaven  of  my  earliest  childhood,  the 
Heaven  of  which  I  heard  the  women  sing,  came 
back  to  me  again,  as  clear  and  real  as  ever.  I 
raised  my  eyes  instinctively  toward  the  sky  where 
it  was.  How  good,  how  wonderful,  that  God 
had  definitely  revealed  this  to  us! 

And  yet — even  then,  I  knew  that  fear  was  not 
gone  entirely.  It  stood  aside,  just  a  little  aside — 
that  was  all.  The  world  had  become,  on  that 
rainy  afternoon,  a  different  place,  somehow — less 
stable,  less  secure. 

It  came — that  fear  of  mine — after  that,  not 
often,  but  most  unexpectedly,  on  strange  occasions, 
in  lonely  places,  at  night,  at  twilight, — at  times 
when  the  animation  of  the  living  world  seemed 
suspended, — a  sudden,  irresponsible  depression.  I 
never  knew  just  when  it  would  come  over  me.  The 
oddest  hints  would  call  it  out. 

I  remember  our  doctor — they  said  he  was  an 
atheist.  I  can't  just  describe  my  feeling  toward 
him.  He  was  a  very  educated  man,  very  kind  and 


86  The  Last  Christian 

always  joking.  There  was  always  a  strange  glint 
of  mirth  and  knowledge  in  his  eyes.  Somehow 
I  always  thought  of  Mephistopheles,  later  when  I 
heard  of  him,  as  like  our  doctor.  Always  smiling, 
with  a  knowledge  of  good  and  evil  in  his  eyes.  And 
always  when  I  met  him  on  the  street,  I  had  a  touch 
of  that  fear  in  mine — that  curious  depression. 

But,  every  time  it  came,  I  could  conquer  it  and 
dismiss  it  then.  I  knew  my  authorities  by  heart; 
I  knew  now  many  passages  in  the  Bible  that  bore 
upon  it.  And  I  drew  them  up  before  me,  when- 
ever that  questioning  came.  The  Bible  stood  al- 
ways there  before  me — a  solid  barrier  holding 
back  a  dark,  immeasurable  sea. 

So  it  was  not  until  that  year  of  the  Great 
Crisis  for  the  Earth  that  this  fear  came  upon  me 
again  very  strongly — the  year  that  Mr.  Griswold 
and  the  others  talked  so  continuously  and  so  ve- 
hemently of  Hell.  Mr.  Means,  the  missionary, 
was  in  the  village  all  that  summer.  I  heard  him 
and  Mr.  Griswold  often  at  my  grandfather's. 
While  I  heard  them  arguing,  discomfort  grew 
upon  me.  Then,  one  day,  it  was  no  longer  discom- 
fort. I  knew  that  fear  was  roused  again. 

"  Let  us  not  mince  phrases,"  said  Mr.  Gris- 
world  loudly  (they  were  discussing  an  article  in 
the  Congregationalist.  "  They  are  to-day  attack- 
ing the  whole  doctrine  of  the  Hereafter.  They 
can  not  attack  one  part  of  the  divine  scheme  of  sal- 


The  Vagrant  Fear  87 

vation  without  the  other.  There  is  exactly  the 
same  authority  for  Hell  as  there  is  for  Heaven." 

"  Exactly,"  said  Mr.  Means.  "  They  are 
abolishing  the  Hereafter,  one  part  with  the 
other." 

"  If  this  world  were  all,  without  hope  of  punish- 
ment or  salvation,"  said  Mr.  Griswold,  "  how 
could  there  be  Christianity  at  all?  " 

"  There  could  not  be,"  said  Mr.  Means. 

My  heart  sank  as  I  heard  them — in  a  way  that 
I  knew  well  now.  My  old  fear  was  on  me  again — 
but  in  a  very  different  form — as  I  first  heard  of 
these  attacks.  They  were  attacking  the  Hereafter 
— the  very  Bible  itself.  And,  from  that  time  on, 
I  listened  carefully  to  that  discussion — openly,  if 
possible;  if  not,  secretly,  behind  doors. 

It  was  secret,  this  fear  of  mine,  always.  We 
in  that  day  were  not  encouraged  to  give  con- 
fidences to  our  elders.  And,  in  this  case,  it  would 
have  been  impossible.  They,  I  felt,  had  no  fears 
of  this  kind.  They  lived  as  certain  of  Heaven  as 
of  the  Earth,  and  went  forward  confidently  from 
one  division  to  the  other  of  the  Universe  which 
God  had  revealed  to  us, — of  which  Mr.  Griswold 
preached  in  the  White  Church.  It  seemed  to  me 
very  clear  that  this  fear  of  mine  was  a  strange, 
unnatural  thing,  peculiar  to  myself — a  shameful 
personal  weakness.  I  took  care  that  there  was  not 
a  human  being  who  knew  of  it — excepting,  finally, 


88  The  Last  Christian 

Celeste  GriswoldL  But  not  she,  either,  for  a  long 
time. 

But,  shameful  as  it  was,  I  could  not  overcome 
my  old  depression  in  that  year  when  they  were 
attacking  the  Bible.  I  listened  days  and  weeks  for 
what  the  old  clergyman  and  missionary  had  to  say. 
It  was  Mr.  Griswold's  confidence  that  finally  re- 
assured me.  Steadily  and  without  changing,  he 
held  to  the  exact  and  literal  inspiration  of  the  Bible 
by  God  against  its  enemies. 

"  That  book,"  I  heard  him  say  one  day  to  Presi- 
dent Mercer  of  the  Christian  College,  "  that  book 
is  your  foundation." 

He  struck  the  great  Bible  on  our  center  table 
violently  with  his  open  hand. 

"  Take  it  away,  and  you  have  nothing  left." 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt  of  it — generally  speak- 
ing," said  the  president  of  the  Christian  College. 

"  It  is  the  bulwark  of  the  ages,"  said  Mr.  Gris- 
wold.  "  These  men  who  are  tampering  with  it 
now,  undermining,  picking  it  to  pieces — we  may 
laugh  at  them!  Let  them  try — let  them  go  on! 
Thy  will  have  their  trouble  for  their  pains.  They 
will  pass,  and  there  will  still  remain,  exactly  where 
it  stood,  the  Everlasting  Gospel  in  its  entirety.  It 
is  an  immovable  rock  upon  which  this  Church  of 
two  thousand  years  has  found  and  must  always 
find  its  foundation." 

My  spirit  leaped  to  hear  him.     It  was  a  day 


The  Vagrant  Fear  89 

of  great  relief  to  me.  For  my  doubt,  in  its  new 
form,  was  crushed  by  what  he  said.  The  Bible  was 
true,  certainly,  exactly  as  it  was  written.  Other- 
wise Christianity  would  fall.  And  certainly  no 
one  claimed  that — no  one  of  consequence.  A  flood 
of  happy  and  relieved  emotion  followed  my  great 
suspense. 

It  was  an  added  sense  of  security  to  me,  almost 
like  that  of  my  earliest  childish  days,  when  I  joined 
the  Church.  I  might  myself  be  guilty  of  that  pecu- 
liar weakness — that  never-resting  fear.  But  be- 
hind me  was  the  Church,  the  great  Christian 
Church,  embracing  or  soon  to  embrace  all  man- 
kind— thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  and  mil- 
lions of  older  men  who  believed,  and  who  knew 
that  what  they  believed  was  true.  Each  Sunday 
I  could  imagine  them  gathering,  in  decent  Sun- 
day garb,  into  white  churches  over  the  entire 
world. 

And  yet,  that  old  fear,  that  sense  of  insecurity, 
was  not  gone  entirely.  It  came  again  at  odd  inter- 
vals, at  peculiar  hints. 

They  taught  in  school,  I  remember,  that  there 
were  nearly  two  billion  people  in  the  world.  For 
some  reason,  that  knowledge  depressed  me  heavily 
for  several  days. 

"  Two  billion  souls,"  I  said  to  Celeste  Gris- 
wold.  "Think  of  it!" 

"  Why?  "  she  asked  me,  looking  up. 


90  The  Last  Christian 

"Doesn't  it  seem  awful  to  you,  somehow?  I 
can't  quite  explain  it." 

"  Well,  yes,  it  does,"  she  said  slowly,  after  a 
little. 

"  Billions,"  I  said.  "  And  billions  and  billions 
before  that!" 

"  How  strange  you  are,  Calvin,"  she  said,  look- 
ing into  my  eyes  with  that  puzzled,  direct  glance, 
which  I  remember  so  clearly  of  her.  "  Why  do 
you  always  have  to  think  up  such  things?  " 

But  it  was  not  so  very  often,  after  all,  that  I  had 
these  thoughts  then,  and  they  were  rarely  acute 
and  pressing — except  at  special  and  unusual  times. 

The  vehemence  of  the  time  of  the  Great  Crisis 
of  the  Earth  subsided;  the  strange  theories  of  the 
Women  who  Smile  and  their  Secret  Book  suc- 
ceeded— to  perplex  and  worry  me  not  a  little.  And 
there  were  many  other  things,  many  changes  that 
I  saw  in  the  world  of  my  elders.  There  was  a 
lessening  sense  of  security,  somehow,  and  a  feeling 
that  perhaps  my  elders  were  themselves  touched 
sometimes  by  that  fear  of  mine. 

But  now,  that  night  my  grandmother  was  dead, 
the  fear  was  on  me  again,  as  it  had  never  been 
before. 

I  was  alone  in  the  white  guest-chamber  in  the 
Griswolds'  house  that  night.  Celeste  had  come  to 
get  me  from  our  house,  while  Mr.  Griswold 
stopped  there  for  the  night  with  my  grandfather. 


The  Vagrant  Fear  91 

And  now,  after  the  long,  slow  evening,  I  was  alone 
— turning  and  turning  that  day's  disaster  in  my 
mind. 

A  sinister  and  unbreakable  oppression  was  upon 
me,  and  the  sense  of  the  unreality,  the  impossibility 
of  the  thing  that  had  happened.  The  feeling  grew 
upon  me;  I  encouraged  it.  No,  it  had  not  hap- 
pened! My  grandmother  was  not  dead!  I  had 
almost  lost  myself;  I  was  all  but  asleep!  Sud- 
denly I  was  awake  again,  my  mind  as  clear  and 
alert  as  a  hawk's  eye.  My  fear  was  on  me  again 
in  a  new  form.  I  thought  of  my  grandmother's 
body,  alone  in  the  great  bed  beneath  the  grim  steel 
engraving  of  the  crucifixion. 

"Where  is  she?"  said  my  fear,  returning,  as 
always,  to  the  point  where  I  had  left  it.  "  Where 
is  she  now,  if  you  know !  " 

I  started  and  sat  upright  in  the  bed,  gasping. 

"  In  Heaven,"  I  said  again,  perfunctorily. 
And,  as  I  said  it,  I  knew  that  it  was  useless.  It 
sounded  insincere  and  hollow. 

"  None  of  that!  "  said  my  Adversary  roughly. 
"  You'll  go  that  road  yourself  sometime.  If  you 
should  go  to-night,  would  you  expect  to  pass  to 
that  strange  place  above  you  in  the  sky — those 
jeweled  towns  and  glassy  seas?  " 

"  Men  all  the  world  around,  much  wiser  than 
I  am,  all  believe  it,"  I  answered. 

And,  as  I  said  this  to  myself,  there  rose  in- 


92  ,  The  Last  Christian 

voluntarily  before  me  the  picture  of  that  after- 
noon— of  my  grandfather  and  the  two  women.  I 
heard  Miss  Avery's  voice  again,  saying:  "It  is 
nothing;  It  is  Error.  Nothing  has  happened 
here  " ;  and  saw  again  the  expression  upon  my 
grandfather's  face. 

A  new  understanding  flashed  across  me.  I  knew 
all  at  once  that  it  was  all  confusion  and  change 
in  the  world  of  older  people — so  many  beliefs 
where  formerly  there  had  been  one;  complexity 
in  place  of  the  old  simplicity,  everywhere. 

"But  what  is  your  belief — your  own?"  de- 
manded my  fear.  "  That's  the  question." 

I  could  not  think  for  a  minute;  I  was  numb. 

There  was  a  brass  candlestick  on  the  white  man- 
telpiece— a  small  brass  shepherdess  within  a  fence 
of  glass  prisms.  The  light  from  the  street  lamp 
caught  upon  one  of  these.  My  eye  fixed  itself 
upon  that  little,  brilliant  point  of  light.  It  was  still 
everywhere — almost  magically  still. 

I  tried  to  answer;  I  tried  to  think,  to  revive 
my  earlier,  surer  visions  of  the  Heaven  of  which 
I  heard  the  women  sing,  of  which  my  grandmother 
had  taught  me.  They  sang  those  songs  of  Heaven 
seldom  now  on  the  street  of  white  houses.  My 
grandmother  was  gone,  with  a  different  faith  than 
that  one  she  had  taught  to  me.  And  my  own 
imagination  of  Heaven  had  faded.  I  tried  in  vain 
to  revive  the  old  images  in  my  mind.  The  Heaven 


The  Vagrant  Fear  93 

of  my  childhood  was  gone,  and  never  after  that 
time  did  it  seem  conceivable  to  me. 

But  that  effort  of  my  memory  reminded  me  of 
the  Bible;  of  that  text  of  Mr.  Griswold's  concern- 
ing the  Celestial  City  that  I  read  the  first  time 
that  my  fear  had  come  to  me.  I  rose  at  once,  and 
took  the  guest-room  Bible  from  where  it  lay  upon 
the  table  by  the  bed.  I  carried  it  to  the  window — 
to  the  light  from  the  street  lamp  beneath,  and 
turned  again  to  the  last  pages  of  the  book,  to  the 
Vision  of  the  Holy  City  that  came  down  upon 
the  earth.  I  read  it  all  again  as  I  had  before — the 
passing  of  the  sea,  the  brilliant  and  detailed  in- 
ventory of  the  city  that  lieth  four-square. 

It  seemed  unreal. 

"  Surely,"  said  my  Adversary,  "  you  can't  be- 
lieve that  as  it  stands." 

I  sat  cramped  and  cold,  leaning  the  book 
toward  the  street  light.  And  finally  I  stopped 
reading  it,  in  trouble  and  depression.  It  meant 
absolutely  nothing  to  me — nothing  that  was 
real! 

I  went  back  to  bed  again.  I  was  cold,  much 
colder  than  the  summer  night  warranted.  And  I 
lay  alone,  as  I  always  had  before,  and  fought 
my  fear  in  its  new  and  triumphant  form. 

Two  o'clock  came,  and  three.  There  were  occa- 
sional stirrings.  Once  Mrs.  Griswold  had  one  of 
her  paroxysms  of  coughing.  I  heard  Celeste  mov- 


94  The  Last  Christian 

ing  about,  helping  her,  in  her  room.  But  mostly 
silence — broken  by  the  hissing  of  the  arc-light  on 
the  street. 

But  then,  at  last,  it  came  to  me.  It  was  nearly 
four  o'clock,  I  remember;  the  first  drowsy  robins 
were  waking  in  the  trees. 

"  Whatever  it  may  mean,  it  must  mean  some- 
thing spiritual,"  I  said  to  myself. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  my  soul,  with  sudden  great 
delight. 

"  We  are  spirits,"  I  went  on  reasoning.  "  No 
one  can  deny  that." 

"  No,"  said  my  Adversary  grudgingly. 

"And  God  is  spirit,  isn't  he?  That  is  certain, 
too.  There  is  certainly  no  doubt  of  that." 

"  No,  there  is  none,"  my  fear  admitted. 

I  had  found  my  answer  at  last.  I  passed  my 
eye  carefully  back  and  forth  over  the  whole  thing, 
over  my  new  defenses.  They  were  all  sound  and 
flawless.  The  Bible,  that  great  barrier,  still  stood 
between  me  and  my  fear — a  perfect  protection  still, 
although  I  had  not  understood  it.  And  again  a 
great  wave  of  happy  emotion  came  over  me,  as  it 
always  did  when  I  had  found  my  defense.  My 
childish  Heaven  had  gone  forever;  but  a  new 
and  better  one  was  come  in  its  place.  And  I 
raised  my  eyes,  as  my  grandmother  had  taught 
me  when  a  little  child,  but  to  a  new  Heaven,  filled 
with  the  great  mystery  of  the  spiritual  presence  of 


The  Vagrant  Fear  95 

almighty  God.  A  sense  of  relaxation  and  security 
followed.  I  fell  into  a  deep,  unbroken  sleep. 

For  many  years  this  new  Heaven  was  to  remain 
with  me.  I  spoke  of  it  very  little  to  any  one.  It 
was  not  a  matter  one  spoke  of  easily.  But  on  that 
morning,  under  the  impulse  of  my  great  emotion,  I 
did  express  my  new  ideas  to  Celeste  Griswold. 

"  I  have  always  thought  of  it  in  that  way,"  she 
said. 

I  remember  just  where  we  stood.  It  was  in 
the  old-fashioned  garden  behind  their  house.  It 
was  still  early  morning.  The  sun  was  bright.  A 
clear  blue  sky  rose  back  of  the  white  houses  of  the 
Street. 

I  was  about  to  go  back  again  to  our  own  house; 
but,  before  I  did  so,  I  felt  that  I  ought  to  thank 
Celeste  Griswold  for  all  that  she  had  done — 
that  they  had  all  done  for  me — at  that  awful 
time.  But  I  did  not  know  just  how  to  begin. 

"  Thank  you,  Celeste — for — everything,"  I 
blurted  out  finally,  and  shocks  hands  with  her  vio- 
lently. Then  I  turned  and  hurried  back  to  our 
house. 

My  new  understanding  of  religion  seemed  very 
sure  and  real  to  me  then.  And  yet,  even  then,  that 
fear  was  not  out  of  the  world  entirely.  It  still 
came  upon  me  now  and  then,  and  still  at  curious 
hints. 

There  was  George  Eliot,  for  example.    I  could 


96  The  Last  Christian 

not  have  explained  exactly,  if  I  had  been  asked,  the 
strange  effect  the  thought  of  her  had  upon  me.  I 
read  a  great  deal  more  now.  At  home,  the  secre- 
tary, with  its  books  founded  upon  Bible  facts,  was 
still  practically  all  the  library  that  we  had.  But 
I  rarely  opened  its  glass  doors.  We  had  our 
books  from  the  circulating  library  now,  both 
Celeste  and  I.  We  had  long  ago  come  into  fiction 
by  the  common  way  of  "  Ivanhoe."  And  we  had 
read  several  of  the  novels  of  George  Eliot  before 
Mr.  Griswold  and  my  grandfather  noticed  and 
stopped  it. 

"What,  reading  that  woman's  books?"  said 
my  grandfather.  "  I  guess  you  can  be  in 
better  business !  "  and  took  the  novel  away  from 
me. 

Then  there  was  a  sermon  by  a  visiting  clergy- 
man, I  remember  very  well,  upon  "  The  Sad  Les- 
son of  George  Eliot's  End."  How  could  a  person 
so  brilliant,  so  wonderful  in  intellect,  willingly  deny 
the  truths  that  made  life  worth  living?  Not 
for  pleasure  or  bravado,  but  in  sadness  and 
regret!  How  could  she  die  denying  the  well 
known  historical  facts  of  the  resurrection 
of  Christ? 

I  did  not  dwell  upon  this  thought.  There  were 
suggestions  there,  chances  for  speculation,  which 
troubled  me.  I  stifled  it  as  thoroughly  as  I  could. 
For  now  I  Understood  a  new  thing  about  this 


The  Vagrant  Fear  97 

fear  of  mine.  It  was  not  only  irresponsible ;  it  was 
changing  its  form  continually  as  it  recurred. 

I  seemed  to  see  changes  everywhere  now.  I 
could  not  help  but  notice  those  which  were  coming 
upon  Mr.  Griswold  and  the  old  White  Church. 

We  sat  again,  I  remember,  the  first  year  I  was 
in  the  Christian  College,  in  my  grandfather's  sit- 
ting-room— exactly  the  same  group  as  on  that 
day  I  remembered  so  well,  in  the  year  of  the  Great 
Crisis  of  the  Earth — all  except  Mr.  Means. 

"  I  see  that  Mr.  Means  is  dead,"  said  my  grand- 
father. 

"  I  had  not  heard,"  said  President  Mercer,  in- 
clining his  head  politely. 

"  It  was  in  the  last  Congregationalist"  said  my 
grandfather. 

"  He  is  dead — in  Marobi  of  Nephalobia,"  said 
Mr.  Griswold.  "  Dead " 

His  speech  was  interrupted.  The  trolley  car 
thumped  and  jarred  by  our  house  upon  its  ill- 
laid  rails.  They  had  put  them  down  on  the  street 
that  year  for  the  first  time. 

"  JDead — in  the  thick  of  the  battle,"  continued 
Mr.  Griswold's  sonorous  voice,  when  it  had 
passed.  "  A  soldier  of  the  Most  High  God." 

"  He  was  a  strong,  energetic  figure,"  said  Presi- 
dent Mercer. 

"  There  are  not  many  of  them  left,"  my  grand- 
father remarked. 


98  The  Last  Christian 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Griswold  and  stopped — think- 
ing. 

"  In  his  last  years  I  believe  he  was  greatly  trou- 
bled by  these  new  tendencies  in  the  church,"  said 
President  Mercer. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Griswold;  "  and  well  he  may 
have  been!  " 

Then  there  was  silence. 

"  I  am  anxious  to  ask  you,  Mr.  Mercer,"  Mr. 
Griswold  went  on,  "  what  has  been  your  observa- 
tion in  the  field?  What  are  the  signs  upon  the 
horizon  in  our  missions?  " 

The  year  before,  President  Mercer,  not  being 
well,  had  traveled  in  Palestine,  and  visited  the 
missionary  churches  in  Asia  Minor. 

"There  is  advance,  I  think,"  said  President 
Mercer,  "  but  slow." 

"  Slow,"  said  Mr.  Griswold,  his  voice  rising. 
"How  could  it  be  otherwise  in  this  time?  How 
can  we  expect  our  missionaries  to  fight  the  battles 
of  our  faith  in  the  mission  field,  with  these  sap- 
pers and  miners  at  work  continually  in  their  rear — 
digging  and  undermining  at  the  Gospel  day  and 
night?" 

"  I  sometimes  think  we  take  too  serious  a  view 
of  it,"  said  President  Mercer  very  quietly. 

Mr.  Griswold  did  not  answer;  but  very  soon 
he  asked  another  question  of  an  entirely  different 
kind. 


The  Vagrant  Fear  99 

"  I  want  to  ask  you,"  said  Mr.  Griswold. 
"  This  Darwinism — this  theory — is  it  not  the  fact 
that  it  has  had  a  good  deal  of  a  setback  at  the 
hands  of  scientists  lately?" 

He  asked  his  question  with  sudden  eagerness, 
his  eyes  shining  under  his  thick  eyebrows. 

"  I  was  not  aware  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Mercer;  "  not 
especially." 

His  manner  was  a  little  different  with  Mr. 
Griswold  than  it  had  been.  A  gap  seemed  to  have 
widened  perceptibly  between  them. 

Mr.  Griswold's  face  showed  obvious  disappoint- 
ment. 

"  I  had  so  understood  from  what  I  read,"  he 
said. 

"  There  are  many  of  its  hypotheses  still  to  be 
confirmed,"  said  President  Mercer. 

"  Do  you  teach  it  in  your  institution?"  asked 
Mr.  Griswold  aggressively. 

"  To  a  limited  extent  we  do,"  answered  Presi- 
dent Mercer  with  dignity. 

"  It  is  a  mistake,"  said  Mr.  Griswold  sternly, 
"  and  you  will  live  to  see  it.  The  theory  is  false; 
untenable.  I  venture  to  believe  that  in  ten  years 
it  will  be  utterly  exploded.  In  the  meanwhile, 
there  is  nothing  so  unsettling  to  belief — especially 
in  the  young — that  has  appeared  in  our  time." 

"Not  that,"  said  President  Mercer.  "Not 
that.  We  must  not  excite  ourselves  unnecessarily, 


ioo  The  Last  Christian 

Mr.  Griswold.  There  is  nothing  essential,  in  my 
opinion,  that  cannot  be  reconciled  with  Chris- 
tianity." 

The  bright  color  of  excitement  grew  on  Mr. 
Griswold's  pale  face. 

"Are  we  all  becoming  blind?"  he  said  in  a 
tremendous  voice.  "  Can't  any  of  us  see  where 
they  are  tending?  In  the  last  ten  years  there 
has  been  a  general  advance  against  the  Bible. 
They  have  torn  the  Old  Testament  to  pieces  in 
the  public  print.  They  are  advancing  against  the 
New.  I  tell  you,  if  you  do  not  take  care,  in  a  few 
years  now  they  will  be  at  your  very  citadel — at  the 
Resurrection  itself." 

He  stood  up.  His  hands  trembled;  there  were 
great  drops  of  perspiration  upon  his  forehead. 
And  I  noticed  with  surprise  that  he  was  out  of 
breath.  Very  soon  afterward  he  excused  himself 
and  went  home. 

"  I  would  rather  see  my  boy,  if  I  had  one,  dead 
before  me,"  said  Mr.  Griswold,  going,  "  than 
taught  this  thing." 

There  was  a  little  silence  after  his  departure. 
To  me  his  outbreak  had  been  most  impressive,  and, 
to  tell  the  truth,  a  little  startling.  The  Resurrec- 
tion, that  historical  fact,  in  danger!  Grown  boy 
as  I  was,  my  heart  sank  momentarily  as  he  said 
it.  There  seemed  no  end  to  the  changes  that  were 
going  on  around  me. 


The  Vagrant  Fear  101 

"  He  holds  to  the  old  beliefs  as  fiercely  as  he 
ever  did,"  said  President  Mercer. 

"  Yes,"  my  grandfather  answered. 

"  A  lonely  figure,"  said  Mr.  Mercer. 

"  Yes,"  said  my  grandfather,  again. 

"  The  last  of  his  kind;  I  don't  know  any  one  else 
quite  like  him." 

"  They  are  nearly  all  gone,"  said  my  grand- 
father. 

"  And  he  himself  looks  much  older  now,"  re- 
marked President  Mercer. 

"  We  are  none  of  us  getting  younger,"  re- 
sponded my  grandfather. 

Their  conversation  jolted  hesitantly  along. 
They  both  seemed  to  be  thinking.  They  did  seem 
older — all  of  them. 

"  Is  his  church  somewhat  declining?  "  asked  the 
college  president  finally. 

"  Yes,"  answered  my  grandfather. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  him,"  said  President  Mercer. 

"  I  am,"  said  my  grandfather.  "  Mr.  Griswold 
is  not  a  great  preacher;  but  he  is  a  very  upright 
man.  I  like  him  the  best  of  any  minister  I  ever 
knew.  You  could  always-tie  to  him." 

"  And  his  church — will  it  remain  self-support- 
ing? " 

"  We  hope  so,"  said  my  grandfather — and 
stopped  a  moment.  "  I  would  hate  to  see  it  go. 
My  father  went  there,"  said  my  grandfather, 


IO2  The  Last  Christian 

"  and  his  father's  father."  His  voice  rose  a  little 
as  he  said  it. 

The  trolley  car,  coming  back  from  the  village, 
bumped  and  sizzled  by  again. 

"  I  understand,"  said  President  Mercer. 
"  Well,  it  will  no  doubt  eventuate  for  the  best. 
But  for  Mr.  Griswold  I  am  truly  sorry.  He  can 
not  seem  to  adapt  himself  to  the  times." 

"  No,"  said  my  grandfather. 

"  We  can  not  escape  it,"  said  President  Mercer. 
"The  times  change;  and  we  change  with  them." 

"  Yes,"  assented  my  grandfather. 

"  In  the  light  of  modern  research,  we  can  not 
do  otherwise,"  said  President  Mercer.  "  But  men 
like  him  are  unnecessarily  alarmed.  If  modern  sci- 
ence seems  at  times  to  take  away,  it  also  often 
adds.  And  many  of  the  discoveries  of  our  archae- 
ologists in  the  East  strengthen  in  a  decided  way  the 
contentions  of  our  Bible  scholars." 

"  I  see,"  my  grandfather  said. 

"  But  of  one  thing  we  may  be  sure,"  said  Presi- 
dent Mercer.  "  They  will  never,  under  any  cir- 
cumstances, invalidate  the  certainty  of  the  Resur- 
rection. It  is  as  strong  to-day  as  it  was  twenty 
years  ago." 

He  was  right.  I  felt  it.  And  my  familiar  emo- 
tion of  glad  security  swept  back  again,  to  cover 
the  recession  of  my  spirits  which  had  come  to  me 
during  the  discussion. 


The  Vagrant  Fear  103 

And  yet,  after  all,  there  was  a  certain  feeling 
of  regret,  of  insecurity,  of  apprehension.  After 
all,  I  remembered  them  when  they  all  seemed  so 
much  younger  and  more  vigorous.  There  was  still 
that  feeling  of  change — and  change,  too,  I  seemed 
to  feel,  always  in  one  direction. 

It  was  two  or  three  years  then,  before  my  old 
fear  came  back  to  me  again  so  strongly.  I  was  at 
college,  in  new  surroundings,  with  new  ambitions — 
away  from  the  atmosphere  of  the  old  white  Street 
and  its  Church. 

The  old  disquiet  came  over  me  at  times,  of 
course — still  at  queer  hints.  And  then,  in  my 
junior  year  it  came  again,  suddenly,  fiercely,  from 
a  very  odd  suggestion. 

I  was  reading  that  night  Lubbock's  book  on 
ants — their  domestic  animals,  their  harvests,  their 
slaves;  their  battles  and  their  bridges;  their  tribes 
and  towns  and  states.  A  wonderful,  unmerciful 
book.  My  eyes  held  to  it,  fascinated.  And,  as  I 
read,  a  great  depression  fastened  itself  upon  me. 
I  recognized  it  at  once.  I  read  on  until  I  came  to 
one  of  the  book's  rare  comments. 

"  Thus  there  seem  to  be  three  principal  types," 
the  text  read,  "  offering  a  curious  analogy  to  the 
three  great  phases — the  hunting,  pastoral,  and 
agricultural  stages  in  the  history  of  human  de- 
velopment." 

I  dropped  the  book.    It  was  late  at  night — the 


104  The  Last  Christian 

chimes  were  striking  a  quarter  hour  in  the  tower 
of  the  chapel.  And  I  faced  myself  once  more  to 
my  old  Adversary. 

Insects — myriads  inconceivable!  What  were 
the  few  billions  of  the  human  race  who  had  come 
and  passed  upon  the  earth  to  these  innumerable, 
manlike  intelligences  inhabiting  the  grass?  In- 
telligences— yes;  undoubtedly.  Then  why  not 
souls? 

"  Yes,"  said  my  fear;  "  why  not?  Souls  just  as 
real  as  yours." 

It  was  back  again  in  its  full  vigor — that  old 
fear.  No ;  started  with  a  tenfold  vigor,  from  its 
long  neglect. 

It  was  late  winter.  I  was  tired,  stuffy  from 
indoor  life,  cramped  from  my  lack  of  exercise.  I 
broke  out,  when  I  could,  for  hunting  in  the  moun- 
tains— shooting  the  white  hares  that  lived  at  the 
top  of  the  hills. 

You  climbed  upon  snow-shoes  up  to  the  spruce 
woods,  a  black  crown  upon  the  summit.  It  was 
wonderfully  still  when  you  passed  in  there.  All 
sounds  fell  dead,  muffled;  your  voice,  even  the 
explosion  of  your  gun — one  dull  report,  that  was 
all.  The  black  foliage  and  the  snow  muted  every- 
thing. It  was  like  a  chamber  hung  with  black, 
heavy  tapestry  against  all  the  world — that  distant 
world  of  living  men  far  down  the  mountain-side. 

The   hound   in  the   hard   woods,    outside   the 


The  Vagrant  Fear  105 

spruces,  went  following  the  great  circle  of  the 
running  of  the  hare.  You  heard  his  baying  dis- 
connectedly— soft,  gone  in  the  hollows,  passing 
away;  then  louder,  a  little  louder  as  he  turned 
toward  you — but  always  muted,  dull,  unreal. 

I  remember  how  I  stood  there,  that  late  winter 
afternoon,  in  that  little  break  in  the  spruce  woods. 
The  dead  trees  were  down  behind  me,  blown  in  a 
tangled  mat  of  trunks  and  brush,  like  corn  lodged 
by  the  wind.  The  semi-arctic  wind  whispered  in 
the  black  branches — a  faint,  intermittent  touch — 
and  died.  The  voice  of  the  dog  sounded,  far 
away.  And  suddenly  the  hare,  absolutely  noiseless 
upon  its  soft  feet,  like  a  quick  white  ghost,  just 
visible,  went  flitting  by  across  the  blue-white  snow. 

I  fired.  I  got  the  thing.  It  leaped,  fell  straight, 
crumpled, — a  loose,  warm  mass  of  fur  upon  the 
snow — and  died.  That  crumpled  thing  and  I  were 
alone  in  the  darkening  clearing  of  the  black  spruce. 

I  stood  there  absolutely  still.  The  sound  of  the 
shot  was  dead  as  soon  as  it  was  fired.  The  wind 
lisped  in  the  spruce  trees  and  failed.  There  was 
nothing  new — except  that  small  warm  ball  of  fur 
upon  the  snow.  And  yet,  the  world  had  changed 
around  me.  There  was  a  new  heaven,  and  a  new 
earth.  For  my  fear  had  leaped  back  upon  me  as 
it  had  never  yet  since  that  first  time  it  had  over- 
taken me  in  the  attic. 

There  was  a  new  world,  without  pity,  or  re- 


io6  The  Last  Christian 

morse,  or  interest — a  million,  million  creatures 
passing  shrieking  on  their  way  to  the  indifference 
of  death.  And  I  with  them.  There  was  no  escape. 

"  But  you  are  exempt  from  this,"  my  doubt  said 
sneeringly,  "  by  special  revelation  of  immortality." 

"  I  believe  I  am,"  I  tried  to  say. 

"  A  special  revelation,"  said  my  Adversary, 
"  testified  to  by  unlettered  Asiatic  peasants  two 
thousand  ago." 

"  It  is  amply  verified,"  I  said,  and  quickly  shut 
off  the  discussion. 

It  was  already  growing  dusk;  the  circle  of  the 
spruces  showed  their  spires  against  the  old  blue 
sky  of  the  cloudy  winter  evening.  I  took  the  other 
cartridge  from  my  gun,  caught  up  the  warm  hare 
by  its  legs,  and  hurried  down  the  mountain-side. 

But  the  issue  was  alive  now;  I  could  not  beat 
it  down.  It  was  not  always  fear.  I  had  thrown 
myself  upon  the  thing  with  the  energy  of  twenty — 
the  time  when  you  still  have  faith  that  you  can  find 
the  Absolute,  that  there  is  an  Absolute,  of  beauty, 
of  courage,  of  right  or  wrong.  If  it  had  been 
nothing  else  but  a  search  for  this, — entirely  aside 
from  fear  or  hope, — it  would  still  have  been  an 
obsession  with  me.  But  it  was  more:  it  was  the 
thing  of  greatest  consequence  in  all  the  world. 

I  ranged  my  old  defenses  out  before  me  once 
again.  I  tried  to  see  again  that  old  Celestial  City 
of  the  vision  of  St.  John.  It  was  all  beautiful 


The  Vagrant  Fear  107 

— a  promise — very  beautiful  still  to  the  ear.  But 
what  did  it  mean?  Did  I  honestly,  fairly  place 
the  slightest  confidence  in  such  revelations  when 
the  times  came  which  tested  my  belief? 

"  No.  But  still  the  Resurrection  stands — a  his- 
torical fact,"  I  said  doggedly. 

"  Does  it?  "  said  my  fear. 

I  flung  myself,  in  the  crude  way  of  a  boy,  upon 
my  problem.  I  had  no  help  of  consequence.  It 
had  been  my  habit  always  to  meet  these  thoughts 
alone. 

I  was  at  home  that  Easter  vacation,  and  several 
times  I  met  Mr.  Griswold  upon  the  street.  He 
seemed  changed  to  me,  leaner,  whiter,  and  not  so 
strong.  A  strange,  old,  anxious  figure,  driving  up 
and  down  the  Street,  in  a  shining  old  frock-coat. 
He  spoke  to  me  several  times,  in  passing,  of  the 
Christian  College.  He  had  been  a  graduate  there 
himself. 

"  They  are  still  teaching  you  this  Darwinism, 
I  presume,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered. 

"  And  you  accept  it,  I  presume,"  he  said. 

"  Why,  yes,"  I  said,  with  some  concern.  But 
he  passed  by  me  without  further  comment. 

I  met  him  once  again,  upon  the  Street. 

"  I  am  told,"  he  said,  stopping  me,  "  that  sev- 
eral times,  of  late,  the  pulpit  of  the  college  church 
has  been  occupied  by  Unitarians — men  who  openly 


io8  The  Last  Christian 

profess  their  disbelief  in  the  Resurrection,  who 
state  openly  that  the  whole  Bible  is  a  myth,  the 
history  of  Christ  a  pretty  fairy  tale.  How  can 
they  allow  this  thing?  How  can  they?  Are  they 
working  to  destroy  the  faith  that  created  the 
institution?  " 

His  unrest  was  so  violent,  so  continual,  so 
disquieting  to  me.  The  Resurrection  a  fairy 
tale — folk-lore!  The  very  sight  of  the  old  man 
accelerated  the  fever  that  was  working  in  my- 
self. 

I  read  and  read,  doggedly — encouraged,  dis- 
couraged; gaining,  losing;  working  more  and  more 
feverishly.  For  now  I  thought  I  saw  another 
characteristic  of  this  fear  of  mine.  Never  once 
had  I  ever  held  it  back.  Steadily,  from  my  first 
childhood,  it  had  always  gained  and  gained  upon 
me.  And  yet,  I  said,  making  my  last  stand: 
"  Christianity,  that  greatest  of  human  institutions, 
that  structure  of  twenty  centuries  untrue !  Impos- 
sible; incredible." 

I  dwelt  especially,  of  course,  upon  that  familiar 
story  of  the  New  Testament — the  story  of  that 
wonderful  white  figure  to  which,  from  earliest 
consciousness,  my  best  emotions  had  been  directed. 
I  read  with  confidence  first,  almost  certainty.  But 
gradually  I  lost  it. ,  Piece  after  piece,  it  crumbled 
under  my  fingers  as  I  caught  at  it.  Try  as  I  might, 
I  could  not  believe  the  miraculous  story — the 


The  Vagrant  Fear  109 

revelation  of  the  Chief  of  Miracles — as  history. 
I  knew,  at  last.  The  great  barrier  of  the  Bible, 
thinning  and  thinning,  year  after  year,  had  gone 
down  utterly  before  me.  And  my  fear  was  now 
upon  me  in  its  final  form,  overwhelming  me. 

The  recognition  of  the  fact  came  to  me,  finally, 
in  a  sudden  flash.  I  was  going  home  from  col- 
lege at  the  end  of  my  junior  year.  The  train  was 
late.  I  failed  to  make  my  last  connection  at  the 
little  junction  point — and  I  sat  there  through  the 
night  in  that  sordid  little  station.  Seats  with 
smooth  iron  arms  and  greasy  backs.  A  faintly 
burning  oil  lamp  before  a  specked  glass  reflector 
threw  a  half-light  over  the  dark  place. 

The  great  freight  engines  went  crashing  by, 
across  the  switches,  their  driving  wheels  level  with 
my  eyes — great,  sinister  creatures  dragging  their 
long,  rattling  loads  behind  them. 

Two  men  in  smutty  overalls,  faces  smudged, 
hands  brown  with  grease,  came  in,  lighted  their 
black  pipes,  and  sat  there,  their  tin  lunch-pails 
beside  them. 

"  Number  seventeen  just  got  Jim  Dorgan  up  the 
line,"  said  one  of  them. 

"  So  they  was  tellin'  me." 

"  They're  bringing  him  along  down  now." 

There  was  a  silence.  "  So  Jim  got  his?  "  said 
the  other  one,  at  last.  "  Too  bad.  What  will 
become  of  the  kids?" 


no  The  Last  Christian 

"  I  dunno,"  said  the  first  man,  and  spat  upon 
the  floor. 

The  dirty  station  was  a  trap,  a  prison.  I  rose 
and  walked  out  to  the  door.  For  I  knew  now — 
not  only  knew,  but  understood.  My  last  barrier 
was  gone. 

Outside  it  was  an  overcast  summer  night.  A 
round  high  hill  lay  black  against  the  sky.  Along 
its  base  there  was  the  hushed  sound  of  a  little 
river.  And  between  it  and  me  a  small  flat  meadow 
— a  faint,  light  green  plain,  with  the  fire-flies 
weaving  in  and  out  above  it.  Far  up  the  road, 
the  hollow  whistle  of  an  engine. 

It  was  all  gone — all  the  foundation  of  my  old 
Universe,  the  teaching  of  those  earlier  days. 

No,  not  all.  I  raised  my  eyes  instinctively,  by 
habit  bred  into  my  last  fiber,  to  the  sky  above  me. 
And  a  great  peace  came  over  me  again.  I  was 
nothing.  I  would  pass,  vanish,  and  be  forgotten. 
But  God  was  still  there,  immutable,  eternal. 

Tears  came  into  my  eyes;  and  my  lips  formed, 
almost  unconsciously,  in  the  long  familiar  words: 

"  Though  he  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  in  him." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  GOD  OF  MY  FATHERS 

IT  was  the  middle  of  the  morning  when  I  came 
through  the  Street  of  white  houses — Sunday 
morning.  The  church  bell  was  ringing,  loud 
on  the  general  silence.  Mr.  Tubbs,  the  organist, 
was  on  the  Street,  walking  slowly  toward  the 
church,  coming  from  the  village,  a  Sunday  paper  in 
his  hand. 

"  Well,  how  are  you?  "  asked  Mr.  Tubbs,  giv- 
ing me  his  fat  hand.  "  Glad  to  see  you." 

"  Fine,"  I  said.  "  How  is  everything  here  at 
home?" 

"  Always  just  the  same,"  said  Mr.  Tubbs. 
"  Just  as  you  see  it;  just  as  you  see  it  now." 

The  same!  Could  anything  have  changed 
more?  It  was  all  changed,  all  shrunken.  These 
little  houses  with  the  white  pillars,  that  little  box 
of  a  church,  were  the  White  Street  and  the  great 
White  Church  of  my  childhood! 

"  Say,"  Mr.  Tubbs  called  after  me,  "  you'll  be 
getting  through  college  next  year,  won't  you?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  I  got  something  I  want  to  talk  to  you 


112  The  Last  Christian 

about  sometime,"  said  Mr.  Tubbs  mysteriously, 
and  passed  along. 

Shrunken!  The  place  was  not  only  shrunken, 
but  strange  to  me — this  quiet  little  place,  this  old 
New  England  Sabbath,  this  strange  world-old  rite 
of  the  seventh  day.  The  church-going  folk  in  their 
stiff,  decent  clothes  were  starting  out  upon  the 
Street,  moving  slowly  toward  the  White  Church. 
I  saw,  from  down  the  Street,  Miss  Avery  in  her 
pink  dress,  opening  the  door  for  one  of  the  con- 
gregation of  the  Women  who  Smiled.  It  came 
across  me,  in  a  flash,  what  a  queer  corner  of  the 
world  I  had  sprung  from.  How  singular  that  I 
had  never  seen  it  so  before  ! 

And  just  as  I  went  by  the  Griswolds'  house, 
hurrying, — for  I  must  get  to  church  myself, — the 
door  opened,  and  out  came  Celeste,  immaculate, 
with  that  sense  of  freshness  and  cleanliness  that 
always  marked  her. 

We  were  both  a  little  surprised,  I  think. 

"  Hello,  Celeste,"  I  said,  dropping  my  valise 
upon  the  walk.  Instinctively  I  held  out  both  my 
hands  to  her.  Instinctively  she  gave  me  both  of 
hers. 

She  was  a  woman  grown.  It  seemed  very 
strange  to  me. 

I  am  quite  a  tall  man,  much  taller  than  most 
women ;  but  her  eyes  were  nearly  on  a  level  with 
my  own.  They  looked  at  me  again  with  that  same 


The  God  of  My  Fathers  113 

old  straight,  frank,  fearless  expression — just  for 
the  fraction  of  a  second.  Then  she  dropped  my 
hands  as  suddenly  as  she  had  taken  them. 

"  Gee,  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Celeste,"  I 
said. 

I  don't  think  that  she  answered  anything. 

But  there  had  come  to  me,  when  my  eyes  met 
hers,  that  old  sense  of  friendliness  and  staunch- 
ness and  comradeship.  How  many  people,  after 
all,  have  we  in  our  lives  whose  eyes  we  can  meet 
frankly,  confidently,  without  some  few  with- 
drawals or  reticences  ?  One — or  two  ?  Not  three 
— impossible  1 

"  You'd  better  hurry,"  Celeste  Griswold  was 
saying,  "  or  you'll  be  late  for  church."  It  seemed 
to  me  her  voice  was  a  little  low  and  unsteady. 

I  hurried.  My  grandfather  was  just  going  out 
when  I  reached  the  house.  But  I  followed  him  at 
once.  And  there,  again,  I  was  in  our  pew  in  the 
old  White  Church  in  time  for  divine  service — my 
grandfather  still  sitting  by  the  door. 

It  still  seemed  very  old  and  odd  to  me.  The 
little  organ  sounded  tremulous  and  scratchy  in  the 
hymns;  the  voices  of  the  congregation  weak  and 
diffident  and  old.  And  over  the  arch  of  the  pulpit 
a  faint  line  of  discoloration — a  trickle  of  yellow 
water-stain,  apparently  from  some  slight  leak  in  the 
roof — reached  down  and  almost  touched  the  old 
inscription  in  the  Gothic  letters : 


H4  The  Last  Christian 


ie  Hone  ©tber  but  tbe  Douse  of  <5oo 

Sometimes,  very  often  now,  I  was  rebellious 
during  services  at  church.  To  sit  in  silence,  held 
in  unanswering  submission  to  statements  you 
thought  to  be  untrue  —  not  only  untrue;  far  worse, 
banal  !  It  was  too  much.  But  it  was  not  so  now. 
I  heard  again,  with  wistful  kindness  and  regret, 
the  voice  of  Mr.  Griswold  giving  his  old-fashioned 
discourse  in  the  old  church  of  my  childhood. 

He  preached,  as  I  had  often  heard  him  preach 
before,  on  the  many  mercies  of  the  God  of  the 
Covenant,  using  this  time  the  text  of  Deuteronomy  : 

"  For  the  Lord  thy  God  is  a  merciful  God;  He 
will  not  forsake  thee,  neither  destroy  thee,  nor  for- 
get the  covenant  of  thy  fathers,  which  He  sware 
unto  them." 

The  covenant  of  thy  fathers  !  It  was  a  call  to 
emotion,  not  debate.  Across  the  old  half  empty 
church,  I  saw,  in  my  imagination,  all  those  kindly, 
earnest  people  who  had  worshiped  there  —  our  fa- 
thers carrying  out  the  covenant  of  their  fathers 
with  Jehovah,  the  Most  High  God. 

Mr.  Griswold  came  down  and  spoke  to  me 
warmly  at  the  closing  of  the  service.  He  seemed 
still  more  changed  to  me.  His  skull  showed  more 
plainly  than  ever  through  the  flesh  of  his  thin  face. 
There  was  perspiration  on  his  forehead,  and  I  saw, 
with  much  surprise,  that  he  was  panting. 


The  God  of  My  Fathers  115 

"  Yes,  that  was  right,"  said  my  grandfather  on 
our  way  home.  "  He  spends  himself  entirely  on 
Sunday  services.  He  lies  in  bed  all  day  long  on 
Monday.  He  is  wearing  himself  out." 

The  afternoon  of  the  next  day  I  went  in  to 
see  Celeste  Griswold.  She  received  me  in  her 
father's  study — that  old  library  of  the  theologian. 
I  looked  around  it  again — the  brown-backed  books, 
the  prints  of  sacred  ruins  on  the  walls.  How  it, 
too,  had  shrunk  from  that  old,  awful  sanctuary  of 
supernatural  knowledge  of  my  boyhood! 

Celeste,  I  thought,  was  rather  grave  and  pale. 
It  certainly  seemed  strange  to  me  to  think  of  her 
as  a  grown  woman;  a  tall,  slight  woman,  with 
vigorous  russet  hair  and  a  skin  very  pale  and 
clear. 

I  had  not  thought,  at  first,  to  speak  to  her  of 
what  chiefly  held  my  mind — that  destruction  of 
my  old  world.  But  it  was  not  long  before  I  found 
myself  telling  her. 

"  Calvin,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  rang  with 
a  sharp  undertone  of  pain,  "  it  can't  have  gone 
as  far  as  that."  For  she  knew  already  something 
of  my  reading — I  had  written  her. 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh,  why  must  you  always  hunt  and  hunt  for 
trouble?"  said  Celeste. 

"  Do  I,  Celeste?  "  I  asked  her.  "  I  don't  feel 
that  I  do." 


n6  The  Last  Christian 

She  looked  at  me  steadily,  curiously,  with  that 
attitude  of  judgment,  of  kindly  appraisal,  that 
women  often  give  to  men. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  you  always  did.  How  can 
you  say  you  don't  believe,  when  all  these  men 
— these  thousands  of  men  who  have  given  their 
lives  to  studying  it — prove  it  all  to  their  entire 
satisfaction?  The  men,  for  instance,  who  have 
written  all  these  books." 

She  motioned  with  her  long  hand  toward  the 
book-shelves — the  brown,  level  lines  of  the 
treatises  of  the  dead  Doctors  of  Divinity  about  the 
walls. 

"  They're  all  obsolete,"  I  said,  without  thinking 
it  might  hurt  her — "  every  one  of  them.  This 
library — all  of  it — is  obsolete." 

"  That  is  not  so,"  said  Celeste,  standing  up 
suddenly. 

"  There  is  not  a  book  here,"  I  went  on  regard- 
less— for  we  were  very  frank  with  each  other,  al- 
ways,— "that  has  been  written  since  1865." 

"  Even  so,  what  difference  would  that  make?  " 
she  said  warmly.  "  What  are  thirty  years  in  all 
these  thousands?  " 

"  There  is  a  new  world  in  these  thirty  years," 
I  said.  "  More  changes  than  in  all  the  time  be- 
fore since  the  days  of  the  Pharaohs." 

She  was  the  same  as  she  always  had  been — 
graver,  a  little  pale,  not  so  eagerly  demonstrative, 


The  God  of  My  Fathers  117 

but,  once  aroused,  she  burned  with  the  same  white 
fire. 

I  went  back  with  her  across  the  field  of  the 
debate.  She  had  read  many  of  the  same  books 
that  I  had  in  the  past,  but  not  that  recent  read- 
ing of  mine.  She  readily  agreed  to  take  it  up. 

"  I  am  not  afraid,"  she  said.  "  And  I  am  not 
afraid  for  you,  except  for  one  thing — that  you  will 
be  too  hasty." 

"  I  will  not,"  I  said.  And  I  promised  her,  when 
she  asked  me,  to  go  over  the  whole  matter  again. 

"  You  will  come  to  me,  not  I  to  you,"  said 
Celeste  Griswold. 

"You  think  that?"  I  asked. 

"  I  do  not  think,"  said  Celeste  Griswold 
proudly.  "  I  know !  If  Christianity  were  not  true, 
why  should  we  want  to  live?  " 

My  spirits  rose  a  little  at  her  tense  sincerity. 
After  all,  there  certainly  must  be  a  God.  At  least 
"That  power  not  ourselves  "  (I  was  reading 
Matthew  Arnold)  "  that  makes  for  righteous- 
ness." 

The  summer  was  before  me;  there  was  time 
enough.  And  so  I  took  up  again  that  old,  cruel 
treadmill  of  my  argument.  But  I  did  not  regain 
my  old  ground;  I  fell  away  continually.  Re- 
treat— always  and  everywhere  retreat ! 

I  could  see  it  now,  as  I  looked  back,  clear 
back  to  my  childhood — the  steady  and  unhalted 


n8  The  Last  Christian 

gain  of  that  fear  of  mine  upon  me,  from  one 
point  to  another,  never  going  back.  And  now  it 
came  to  me,  just  as  clearly  and  certainly:  that 
fear,  that  falling  of  the  barriers  which  faith  had 
thrown  up  against  it,  was  just  as  constantly  advanc- 
ing everywhere  about  me — even  in  the  quiet  back- 
waters of  the  old  Street. 

I  walked  much  in  the  hills  that  summer.  I  had 
been  in  and  out  of  them  always  since  I  was  old 
enough  to  hold  a  fishing-rod  across  the  brooks. 
But  now  my  unrest  drove  me  in  and  out  across 
the  mountains,  thinking  sometimes,  sometimes 
trying  to  forget. 

I  was  far  up  one  day — in  a  high  mountain  pas- 
ture— when  a  sudden  thunderstorm  rolled  up,  tre- 
mendous, white  and  blue,  across  the  valley  under- 
neath. I  stepped  into  an  old  black  ruin  of  a 
haybarn — you  find  them  still  sometimes  in  these 
deserted  hills.  The  warm,  dry  fragrance  of  the 
coarse  hay  enveloped  me.  I  felt  the  grateful  sen- 
sation of  shelter  in  a  bad  storm. 

Then,  outside,  in  the  steaming  summer  rain, 
I  saw  a  figure  coming,  a  great  figure,  pounding  the 
grass-grown  road,  its  clothes  drenched  to  a  glossy 
limpness.  It  was  Mr.  Griswold. 

I  started  to  call  out  to  him.  Then  I  stopped. 
He  was  talking  to  himself,  smiting  his  big  left 
palm  with  his  clenched  right  hand.  His  eyes  were 
absent,  staring  straight  ahead. 


The  God  of  My  Fathers  119 

"  No,  no,"  Mr.  Griswold  was  saying.  "  Salva- 
tion. That's  the  only  answer;  the  one  solution. 
The  one  and  only  thing  that  makes  it  rational." 

He  passed  by,  striding  down  the  storm,  gesticu- 
lating. 

Strange,  I  said  to  myself.  Two  of  us — here ! 
For  I  saw  that  exactly  the  same  unrest  that  was 
obsessing  me  was  driving  him — seen  in  a  different 
form.  Continual  change,  never  once  turned  back, 
still  always  gaining  in  the  same  direction. 

I  did  not  speak  to  Mr.  Griswold  of  my  own 
struggles.  We  were  too  far  apart.  Not  only  I, 
but  his  own  daughter,  saw  that  clearly. 

"  Yes,  I  understand,  Calvin,"  she  said,  when 
I  spoke  of  it.  "  You  can't. 

"  Poor  father !  "  she  went  on  softly.  "  He 
seems  rough  and  vigorous  still.  But  he  isn't  well, 
not  very.  It  seems  as  if  he  were  never  quiet.  He 
doesn't  sleep.  He  is  just  wearing  himself  out. 
And  we  can  do  nothing  but  sit  and  watch  him." 

I  didn't  discuss  the  reason  with  her.  She  knew 
I  knew.  It  was  his  failing  church,  of  course;  the 
general  agitation  of  his  mind  by  those  religious 
controversies. 

"  Have  you  read  the  books  I've  given  you?  "  I 
asked  Celeste  Griswold  several  times.  She  had — 
one  after  another;  but  she  would  not  comment  on 
them. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  them?  "  I  asked  her. 


I2O  The  Last  Christian 

"  I'd  rather  not  talk  of  them,  Calvin,"  she 
would  say,  "  until  I  have  read  them  all  more 
thoroughly." 

"  You  can't  say  that  they  are  vindictive  or 
malicious  or  bad-tempered,  can  you?"  I  insisted. 

"  Some  of  them  are  not,"  she  said. 

"  They  are  as  reverent  and  sincere  in  their  way 
as  the  Bible  is,"  I  said  warmly.  I  believed  that 
thoroughly.  That  was  the  time  of  the  New  Ref- 
ormation— you  may  remember:  the  rise  of  seri- 
ous, determined  figures  in  science  and  philosophy 
into  the  discussion  of  the  Christian  faith. 

It  was  evening,  I  remember,  the  time  we  had 
that  talk — summer  evening,  just  after  the  lighting 
of  the  lamps.  We  sat  alone  in  the  old  theological 
library.  For  several  minutes  neither  of  us  spoke. 

"  I  believe,"  said  Celeste  Griswold  at  last — 
her  speech  was  dry  and  halting,  as  if  it  cost  her 
a  painful  effort  to  frame  the  words — "  I  believe," 
she  said,  "  there  is  one  thing  such  men  as  these 
have  never  known."  She  stopped.  "  Never  taken 
into  account."  She  stopped  again.  The  rhythmic 
droning  of  the  August  night  throbbed  through  the 
pauses  in  her  speech. 

She  sat  part  way  across  the  room  from  me — 
a  dim  white  figure  on  the  border  of  the  lamp- 
light. There  was  sewing  in  her  lap — she  was  never 
without  work  of  some  kind  by  her. 

"  I  mean — the  knowledge  that  real  Christians 


The  God  of  My  Fathers  121 

have,"  she  said  again.  "It  isn't  reason,  is  it? 
We  can't  prove  it.  But,  oh,  Calvin !  I  don't  think 
— I  know !  I  have  known  ever  since  I  was  a  little 
girl. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  Calvin,"  she  said  finally, 
"  that  I  can't  express  myself  better.  I  talk  so 
badly — with  so  much  difficulty — on  things  like 
this.  It  is  one  way  in  which  I  miss  the  education 
that  I  hoped  for."  Her  voice  receded  into  silence. 

There  were  deep  reticences  in  her  always — girl 
and  woman;  hidden,  silent,  personal  shrines,  whose 
lights  showed  from  without  only  at  the  rare  dis- 
turbance of  some  great  emotion. 

And  what  she  said  might  easily  be  true.  In- 
deed, the  train  of  argument  was  already  directing 
itself  along  those  lines — in  the  more  abstruse  lan- 
guage of  the  psychologists — to  the  "  subconscious 
self."  The  exploration  was  already  well  begun 
of  that  new,  murky  country  of  the  instincts  and 
emotions.  No  one,  certainly,  who  thought,  could 
deny  the  possibilities  of  this  new  field.  It  came 
to  me,  with  another  uprush  of  emotion,  that  here 
might  possibly  be  a  way  out  that  I  had  not  seen. 
I  tried — and  tried  sincerely  to  sense  again  the  at- 
mosphere of  religion.  I  even  went  in  to  the  prayer 
meetings  on  Thursday  nights. 

How  strange  they  seemed  to  me  after  all  those 
years — that  handful  of  aging  people  in  the  bare 
vestry;  those  sad-faced  women  in  black;  the  bowed 


122  The  Last  Christian 

octogenarian,  with  the  rattling  cough;  the  lean,  set- 
faced  man,  with  the  brown  beard  upon  his  stringy 
neck — that  man  with  the  gift  of  prayer,  who  burst 
forth  on  every  Thursday  evening,  after  the  long 
week's  silence,  in  the  rolling  phrases  of  the 
Apocalypse;  and  Mrs.  Judd,  with  her  white  blond 
hair  and  red  eyes.  They  were  old,  all  of  them. 
There  was  but  one  young  person  there  regularly 
besides  Celeste  Griswold  and  myself — the  pale 
and  diffident  girl  who  played  the  cabinet  organ. 

I  felt  sure  of  one  thing — I  could  not  help  it,  as 
I  watched  them :  I  had  not  been  alone  in  that  old 
fear  of  mine.  Death,  the  destroyer,  the  divider 
of  souls — the  fear  of  him,  the  blind  hope  to  escape, 
was  written  obviously  on  too  many  of  those  faces. 

I  was  welcomed  very  warmly,  almost  eagerly. 
Even  Mr.  Griswold's  severe  face  seemed  to  lighten 
up  a  little  when  I  came  in. 

"  I  am  glad  you  went,  if  for  nothing  else.  You 
will  never  know  how  much  it  meant  to  him,"  said 
Celeste. 

But,  after  all,  I  saw  that  it  made  but  little 
impression  on  me,  that  attendance  of  mine  upon 
those  prayer  meetings.  I  could  not  doubt,  at  last, 
that  it  oppressed  me.  It  started  a  most  depressing 
train  of  thought. 

I  picked  up,  one  day, — it  was  nearly  at  the  end 
of  my  vacation, — an  old  text-book  of  mine  upon 
the  Greeks  of  the  time  of  Aristophanes.  My  eye 


The  God  of  My  Fathers  123 

droned  down  the  dull  pages  till  suddenly  they 
stopped  at  a  paragraph  which  read,  as  I  rememb.er 
it,  about  like  this: 

"  The  religion  of  the  Greeks  at  this  period  was 
well  on  its  decline.  The  masses  of  the  population 
accepted  it,  it  is  true;  but  to  the  educated  classes 
it  was  grotesque — already  obsolescent.  Neverthe- 
less, they  not  only  tolerated  but  supported  it  for 
its  ceremonial  and  its  disciplinary  value  upon  the 
populace.  The  time  was  yet  to  come  when  Attic 
civilization,  freed  from  the  salutary  influences  ex- 
erted by  religion,  however  false,  would  plunge 
down  like  an  extinguished  torch  until  it  died  en- 
tirely, at  last,  in  the  gross  darkness  of  the  Middle 
Ages." 

Commonplace  enough — a  sentiment  a  thousand 
times  repeated !  But  it  cut  into  me  suddenly  like 
a  knife. 

The  Universe  of  my  childhood,  the  strange 
old  cosmic  theory  of  those  Asiatic  shepherds  three 
thousand  years  ago ;  those  gray  and  sturdy  myths, 
with  their  roots  far  down  in  the  foundation  of 
human  thought  and  speech;  that  wonderful  but 
i  curious  treasure-house  of  the  spiritual  emotions 
and  precepts  of  dead  peoples;  the  Scriptures;  the 
White  Church;  the  fine  white  flower  of  a  spiritual, 
emotional  race,  so  suited  for  the  comfort  and  the 
discipline  of  the  rough  and  brutal  and  uncultivated 
ages  that  succeeded  it.  But  now — how  strange! 


124  The  Last  Christian 

how  inconceivable !  Was  some  great  cycle  in  the 
history  of  man  swung  around  again  to  the  death 
of  another  religion?  I  shuddered  when  that 
thought  came  to  me. 

I  attended  one  more  prayer  meeting  before  I 
went  back  again  to  college.  It  was  the  monthly 
missionary  meeting.  The  tall,  pale  girl  who  played 
the  cabinet  organ  read  an  annual  review  written  on 
old-fashioned  bluish-white  note-paper. 

"  The  past  year  has  seen  an  advance,  if  not 
marked,  yet  noticeable  in  the  field  of  foreign  mis- 
sions," she  began. 

I  heard  but  little  more.  The  imagination  of 
the  great  reaches  of  the  world  untouched  as  yet 
by  this  especial  faith  came  to  me ;  the  twenty  cen- 
turies of  hope  and  effort  and  endeavor  for  the 
saving  of  mankind.  And  here — in  New  England 
— its  stronghold,  this  gathering! 

Mr.  Griswold  spoke  to  me  when  I  went  out, 
expressing  his  approval  for  the  first  time  since  I 
had  come  there.  I  was  going  back  to  college  next 
morning. 

"  We  have  been  very  glad  to  have  you  with 
us  here,  Calvin,"  said  Mr.  Griswold  simply,  and 
shook  my  hand. 

I  felt  a  quick  regret  at  the  falseness  of  my 
position. 

He  was  stopping,  after  service,  with  one  of  his 
parishioners — an  aged  woman  who  caught  his  arm 


The  God  of  My  Fathers  125 

continually,  and  held  him  to  her  anxious  inquiries 
over  the  exact  status  of  the  soul  in  the  hereafter. 

Celeste  Griswold  and  I  walked  out  together, 
across  the  grass-plot  to  her  house.  It  was  a  still 
summer  evening.  There  was  an  orange  after-light, 
barred  with  motionless  blue  clouds,  behind  the  elm 
trees.  A  robin,  disturbed,  gave  one  last  sharp 
cry  in  some  tree-top.  .Then  silence — rest. 

"  Oh,  I  can't,  Celeste,"  I  said  at  last—"  I  can't 
keep  up  this  acting  eternally.  Sometime  or  other 
I  must  say  what  I  believe.  I  must  leave  the  church. 
It  isn't  right;  it  isn't  honest  for  me  to  stay  there." 

"  No,"  said  Celeste.    "  Not  yet,  not  yet !  " 

"Can't  you  see  my  position?"  I  asked. 
"You've  read  the  books  I  gave  you.  Can't  you 
see,  can't  you  understand  what  I  mean — a  little?  " 

For  I  could  never  get  her  to  discuss  those  books 
with  me.  She  had  read  them  all,  I  knew — sitting 
in  her  bedroom  late  at  night,  reading.  I  could 
see  her  lighted  windows.  It  was  the  only  time 
she  had;  she  was  busy  all  the  day. 

"  I  understand,"  she  said  quietly. 

Then  there  was  silence. 

"  But  not  yet,  Calvin,"  said  Celeste  Griswold 
again,  suddenly.  "  Not  yet.  You  know  how  im- 
petuous you  are.  Wait  a  little  longer." 

"  How  much  longer?  "  I  asked  her. 

"  Not  much,  now,"  she  said.  "  You  will  come 
back  at  last.  Only  wait.  It  can  do  no  harm.  Wait 


126  The  Last  Christian 

— if  for  nothing  else,"  she  said  finally,  "  but  for 
the  sake  of  my  poor  father.  You  can  never  know 
what  this  has  meant  to  him,  Calvin — what  you 
have  done  this  summer.  Don't  trouble  him  now." 

Strange  old  man!  I  thought.  He  had  scarcely 
said  a  word  to  me. 

We  were  silent  again. 

"  You  are  going  in  the  morning,"  said  Celeste 
Griswold. 

"  Yes,"   I  answered. 

She  tried  to  speak  several  times,  I  think. 

"  You  will  come  back  to  us,  Calvin,"  she  said  at 
last,  in  a  low,  level  voice.  "  I — shall  pray  for  you. 
I  shall  pray — "  she  said — and  stopped. 

She  was  very  pale — a  tall  figure  in  a  white  gown 
— rather  old-fashioned.  I  liked  her  in  those  im- 
maculate gowns  she  wore — and  made  herself.  She 
was  as  fine  as  a  tall  flower  in  an  old-fashioned 
garden. 

"  I  shall  pray,"  she  said,  and  hesitated  again, 
"  a  little— for  myself." 

And,  as  I  looked  at  her  in  the  darkening  even- 
ing, a  great  sense  of  all  that  she  had  been  to  me — 
of  her  honesty,  and  cleanness,  and  high  courage — • 
swept  over  me. 

"  Celeste,  God  bless  you,"  I  said  to  her. 
"  There  has  never  been  a  time  of  weariness  or 
trouble,  in  all  my  life,  when  you  were  not  doing 
me  some  great  kindness." 


The  God  of  My  Fathers  127 

And  suddenly,  without  thinking  at  all,  I  stooped 
and  kissed  her  hand,  and  let  it  fall  again.  Never 
in  all  our  lives  together  had  I  attempted  such  a 
thing  before.  Yet,  curiously  enough,  we  seemed 
not  to  notice  it,  either  of  us,  as  strange,  or  new, 
or  unexpected.  We  stood  exactly  as  we  had  stood 
before,  silent,  motionless. 

"  You  are  going  in  the  morning,"  said  Celeste 
Griswold  huskily  at  last. 

"  Yes." 

"  Good-by." 

Her  white  figure  passed  through  the  dusk — in 
through  the  doorway  of  the  old  white  house. 


CHAPTER  VII 
MY  OWN  PEOPLE 

1    TURNED  away  at  last— walked  slowly  back 
to  our  own  house.     I  passed  up  the  walk  to 
the  side  door.     And  there,  across  the  lawn, 
was  Mr.  Tubbs  on  his  piazza,  in  his  old  rocking- 
chair.    He  usually  sat  there  on  pleasant  evenings, 
moving  stiffly  back  and  forth  like  a  fat  rocking- 
horse,  his  hands  on  the  chair-arms,  his  eyes  looking 
straight   out   into   the   dark,    his    feet   regularly 
thump,  thump,  thumping  on  the  piazza  floor. 

He  waved  his  fat  hand  at  me  as  I  went  in  our 
door. 

"  I'm  going  to  see  you  some  day  about  that 
thing  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about,"  he  called. 

"  All  right,"  I  said,  and  passed  in. 

My  grandfather  was  in  the  sitting-room.  How 
clearly  I  remember  it,  even  now!  How  sharply 
it  all  sprang  before  me  that  day  two  months  later 
— the  day  that  my  telegram  came ! 

He  sat  stretched  out  in  his  green  velvet  easy- 
chair,  beside  his  green-shaded  lamp,  reading  his 
newspaper.    As  I  came  in  he  looked  at  me  sharply 
over  the  rims  of  his  reading-glasses. 
ia8 


My  Own  People  129 

"  Been  out  to  prayer  meeting?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  I  said. 

If  I  had  lived  with  him  until  middle  age,  I 
think  I  would  never  have  answered  him  without 
the  "  sir  " — that  stiff  New  England  symbol  of 
respect  drilled  into  me  from  babyhood.  It  was 
an  essential  part  of  our  relation. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  my  grandfather,  and  I  knew 
that  he  wanted  to  talk  with  me. 

I  seated  myself  on  one  of  the  lean,  slippery  hair- 
cloth chairs. 

"  Your  religion  been  bothering  you?  "  asked  my 
grandfather  abruptly,  laying  his  glasses  upon  the 
marble  top  of  the  center  table. 

It  was  an  unexpected  shock.  He  had  never 
mentioned  the  subject  before.  He  had  given  ab- 
solutely no  sign  of  noticing  my  agitation  over  the 
decline  of  my  faith.  But  now  that  he  knew,  I 
could  expect  only  one  outcome — trouble. 

"Yes,  sir,"  I  said;  "it  has." 

Whatever  came  must  come.  I  could  not  deny 
what  I  believed  or  disbelieved. 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  my  grandfather. 

I  moved  a  little  in  my  chair,  not  knowing  what 
to  say,  or  what  to  expect  from  him — but  surely 
something  serious. 

"  And  so  you  went  to  prayer  meeting,"  said  my 
grandfather,  "  to  see  what  they  could  offer  you. 
That  it?" 


130  The  Last  Christian 

"  Yes,  sir,"  I  said,  wondering  at  the  accuracy  of 
his  observation. 

"  Did  you  get  any  help  out  of  it?  " 

"No,  sir;  I  did  not,"  I  said — a  little  loudly, 
with  a  hastening  of  my  pulse. 

What  would  he  do?  He  might  stop  my  educa- 
tion when  he  knew;  throw  me  upon  my  own  re- 
sources; cut  off  my  support  entirely.  I  braced 
myself  for  what  was  coming. 

"  I  see,"  said  my  grandfather,  his  black  eyes 
fixed  steadily  on  my  face — and  stopped  there. 
And  still  I  sat,  waiting  the  strain  of  attack. 

"  I  see,"  he  repeated  reflectively. 

I  looked  up  at  the  unexpected  tone  of  his  voice. 

"  Well,  I  used  to  go  a  good  deal,"  he  said, 
"  when  your  grandmother  was  alive — before  she 
took  up  that  new  religion.  But  lately  I've  kind 
of  given  it  up." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I've  noticed,"  I  replied — and  waited. 
I  was  puzzled  by  the  trend  of  his  talk. 

"So  you've  lost  your  religion?"  said  my 
grandfather,  "  and  they  can't  give  it  back  to  you 
again?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  I  said,  my  tongue  loosened  by  his 
unexpected  tolerance.  "  I've  tried  as  hard  as  I 
could.  I've  read;  I've  listened.  I  can't  do  it, 
sir — I  can't  believe  it." 

"You  can't  believe  what?"  he  asked  sharply. 
The  storm  had  come  I 


My  Own  People  131 

"  I  can't  believe — "  I  started. 

"  You  can't  believe  what  the  ministers  say," 
concluded  my  grandfather. 

"No,  sir;  I  can  not." 

"  They  don't  know  much  about  it,"  remarked 
my  grandfather  dryly;  "  do  they?  " 

"No,  sir,"  I  managed  to  stammer;  "I  think 
not" 

Never,  I  think,  have  I  gone  through  so  sudden 
a  revulsion  of  feeling.  My  grandfather — the  pil- 
lar of  the  White  Church,  that  chief  representative 
of  the  faith  in  a  world  of  men! 

"  It  seems  strange,"  said  my  grandfather,  half 
musing.  "  When  I  was  a  boy  everything  was 
church — Sundays  and  weekdays.  Now  they  seem 
to  be  all  drifting  the  other  way.  The  whole  thing 
seems  to  be  kind  of  running  down  everywhere, 
don't  it?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  I  replied  faintly,  not  yet  certain  of 
myself — that  I  understood  him. 

"  I  can  remember,"  he  said,  "  when  the  White 
Church  was  filled  full  Sunday  after  Sunday.  Now 
they're  trolley-riding,  reading  the  Sunday  papers 
on  Sunday — anything  but  church.  And  the  min- 
isters can't  get  them  back  again. 

"  No,  the  ministers  don't  know  much  about  it," 
my  grandfather  continued — and  was  silent,  while 
I  tried  my  best  to  readjust  myself  to  my  new  situa- 
tion. 


132  The  Last  Christian 

I  was  in  a  new  world.  All  at  once,  without 
the  slightest  ceremony,  this  silent  superior  of  mine, 
this  taskmaster  and  dictator  of  my  childhood,  had 
swung  back  the  gate.  I  stood  for  the  first  time 
face  to  face  with  him,  two  equals  in  the  world 
of  older  men,  without  reticence  or  fear  or  inter- 
position of  authority  between  us. 

"  You  say  your  reading  didn't  get  you  any  fur- 
ther? "  my  grandfather  was  asking  me. 

"No,  sir;  it  led  me  the  other  way." 

I  looked  up  as  I  said  it,  straight  into  his  eyes. 
They  startled  me.  Never,  before  or  since,  have 
I  seen  quite  such  a  look  in  a  man's  eyes — of  hun- 
ger and  eagerness.  It  focused  just  for  a  second 
on  my  eyes,  and  then  was  averted. 

"  I  didn't  know  but  what  they  might  have  found 
something,  all  these  educated  men — something 
you  could  really  fasten  to — a  little,"  he  said. 

"  If  they  have,"  I  said,  "  I  haven't  seen  it." 

"No,"  said  my  grandfather  in  a  dull  voice. 
"  No.  I  suppose  it's  too  much  to  expect.  But,  you 
see,  I'm  not  an  educated  man;  I  have  to  take 
what  they  tell  me  and  think  it  over." 

He  had  been  asking  my  advice.  Now  he  was 
apologizing — to  me !  I  could  not  fully  realize  it. 

"  It  is  a  good  thing,  I've  found,"  he  said  finally, 
"  to  keep  your  mind  busy — keep  occupied.  Then 
you  don't  get  to  thinking  about  it.  That's  what  I 
find — as  I  get  older." 


My  Own  People  133 

Then,  as  if  following  his  own  advice,  he  changed 
the  subject: 

"  Have  you  made  up  your  mind  what  you  want 
to  do  when  you  get  out  of  college?"  asked  my 
grandfather,  drawing  himself  up  a  little  in  his 
chair. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  I  answered,  detaching  my  mind  as 
best  I  could  from  the  other  train  of  thought.  "  I 
had  intended  lately — I  had  thought  that  I  would 
take  up  biology  or  organic  chemistry." 

I  had  thought  over  it  a  good  deal,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  in  the  last  two  weeks.  It  appealed  to  me 
at  first  in  this  way:  after  all,  if  we  were  to  know 
anything  about  the  matter  that  was  worrying  me 
so, — about  that  most  wonderful  and  important  of 
all  things,  life, — wouldn't  the  way  be  eventually 
to  start  at  the  beginning,  and  study,  in  the  simplest, 
most  direct  way,  what  actual  knowledge  we  had 
gained  of  it?  Just  what  it  is.  Besides,  I  was 
naturally  interested  in  biology.  It  seemed  such  a 
big  thing,  someway. 

"  Biology  ?  "  repeated  my  grandfather.  "  Some- 
thing like  doctoring.  It  might  lead  to  that,  I 
mean."  He  always  took  the  practical  view. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  I  said;  "  it  might — very  easily." 

"  I  see,"  said  my  grandfather,  and  we  lapsed 
into  silence. 

Finally  he  roused  himself  and  sat  straighten 

"  There  was  something  I  wanted  to  say  to  you 


134  The  Last  Christian 

to-night,  before  you  go  back  to  school,"  he  said. 

His  voice  was  dry  and  level;  but  there  was  not 
a  hitch  or  cough  or  hesitation  that  impeded  it. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  I  said,  waiting. 

"  They  tell  me  I'm  not  so  well  as  I  was,"  said 
my  grandfather.  "  They  tell  me  I've  got  a  heart 
trouble." 

I  felt  cold  and  scared  when  he  said  it.  He  would 
never  have  spoken  without  some  serious  reason. 

"  Angina  pectoris — they  call  it,"  said  my  grand- 
father. "  I've  had  several  spells  of  it  this  last 
year.  They  tell  me  it  gets  worse  as  time 
goes  on." 

"  Oh,  sir,"  I  said,  starting  up,  "  I'm — I'm  sorry! 
I  hope- 
It  was  wicked — not  a  word  more  could  I  say. 
If  I  could  only  have  taken  his  hand !  If  I  could 
only  have  had  some — any  expression  of  my 
feeling !  I  hadn't  one.  All  those  years  of  silence 
and  obedience,  all  that  iron  schooling  of  reticence, 
stood  between  us. 

But  the  strangest  thing  of  all  was  that  I  saw 
I  had  -no  name,  even,  to  address  him  by.  The 
first  name  that  I  had  had,  the  childish  "  grandpa," 
had  become  impossible  long  before;  "grand- 
father "  I  found  stiff  and  unnatural.  I  really  be- 
lieve, by  instinct,  I  would  have  done  as  my  grand- 
mother had  done — called  him  "  Mr.  Morgan." 
But  that,  too,  was  impossible.  For  several  years  I 


My  Own  People  135 

had  avoided  addressing  him  at  all — by  anything  but 
the  rigid  "  sir  "  to  which  he  had  always  trained  me. 

My  grandfather  stood  up. 

"  I  thought  you  ought  to  know,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  I  said  awkwardly,  following  him 
and  rising  to  my  feet. 

"  If  anything  happens,  of  course,  what  I've  got 
is  yours,"  he  went  on  crisply. 

And  even  after  that  I  could  only  stammer,  con- 
fusion confounded  with  emotion,  that  I  hoped  and 
believed  that  it  would  be  many  years  before  it 
came  to  me. 

We  talked  with  great  embarrassment;  our  eyes 
avoided  each  other's  as  we  spoke. 

"  But  you  can't  tell  anything  about  what  these 
doctors  say,"  said  my  grandfather  dryly. 
"  They're  wrong  half  the  time." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  won't  see  you  again,"  he 
added.  For  I  would  take  the  early  morning  train 
before  he  would  be  up  again.  "  Good-by." 

u  Good-by,  sir,"  I  said. 

We  didn't  as  much  as  shake  hands  that  night. 
It  was  awkwardness  on  both  sides,  I  suppose;  but 
principally  withdrawal  on  his,  I  think,  after  his 
unusual  confidences. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  my  grandfather,  "  that 
doctor  of  ours  is  a  good  fellow,  I  always  thought 
— don't  you?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  I  said. 


136  The  Last  Christian 

"  If  you  decide  to  go  into  doctoring,  or  any- 
thing like  that,"  said  my  grandfather,  "  I  believe 
he'd  be  a  good  man  for  you  to  talk  to  and  get 
better  acquainted  with.  He's  been  a  good  friend 
of  our  family."  And  his  sharp  eyes  dwelt  on  mine 
again  as  he  said  it. 

"Yes,  sir,"  I  answered;  "  I  will." 

"  You  know,  you  haven't  many  relations." 

"  No,  sir,"  I  said,  wishing  I  could  say  more — 
of  the  deep  tie  that  bound  us,  the  last  two  of  our 
race.  But,  as  it  was,  I  said  nothing,  finally. 

He  went  into  the  dining-room  and  lighted  his 
kerosene  lamp.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  him- 
self had  brought  the  electric  lights  into  the  village, 
he  still  carried  his  old  glass  kerosene  lamp  to  his 
bedroom.  It  was  more  economical. 

"  Good-by,"  said  my  grandfather  again. 

His  figure  went  down  the  passageway  with  his 
lamp  to  his  lonely  bedchamber  at  the  side  of  the 
dining-room.  He  was  whiter  than  he  had  been;  a 
little  less  smart  and  definite  in  his  movements;  his 
black  beard  was  well  grayed  over  now.  But  his 
eye  was  as  black  and  keen  and  his  carriage  as  self- 
confident  and  determined  as  it  ever  was.  He 
passed  on  through  the  corridor  without  turning 
back.  If  I  could  only  have  stopped  him — have 
said  some  little  thing — given  some  little  expres- 
sion of  what  I  felt.  But  I  could  not.  I  had  no 
form  to  put  it  in.  What  dumb  fools  we  are, 


My  Own  People  137 

aren't  we — we  Anglo-Saxon  men,  in  our  emo- 
tions toward  one  another? 

My  grandfather  closed  his  door.  Outside, 
across  the  road  from  our  silent  house,  I  heard 
once  more  the  slow,  regular  thump,  thump,  thump 
of  Mr.  Tubbs  rocking  upon  his  piazza. 

I  took  the  early  train  at  two  o'clock.  And  as  I 
went  up  the  street  I  looked  up  and  saw  a  light  in 
Celeste  Griswold's  bedroom,  where  I  knew  she 
still  sat  reading  those  books  of  mine.  I  thought 
with  regret  of  the  fever  and  unrest  I  had  brought 
to  her,  of  the  trouble  and  pain  I  had  caused  her. 
But  once  the  light  from  her  room  had  left  my 
eye,  my  mind  was  back  again,  ringing  with  the 
echoes  of  the  sharp,  crisp  speech  of  my  grand- 
father. 

In  those  next  few  weeks  I  thought  so  many 
times  of  him,  alone  in  the  old  house,  with  our  one 
old  deaf  servant,  facing  by  himself  what  might 
come  to  him  at  any  time  in  one  great  flash  of  awful 
pain,  without  a  tremor  in  those  sharp  eyes,  without 
a  sound,  without  faith — essentially  as  faithless  as 
myself. 

It  was  a  grim  and  unpleasant  picture.  But  in  a 
way,  too,  it  was  clarifying  and  strengthening. 
Whatever  happened,  there  was  one  asset  you  could 
reserve  for  yourself — your  own  courage  and  self- 
respect.  Courage,  by  all  means — if  the  world 
rattled  to  pieces  about  your  ears !  He  had  taught 


138  The  Last  Christian 

me  that  always,  but  that  night  more  than  ever  be- 
fore. And  Heaven  knows  I  needed  it  just  then. 
For  now  the  vestiges  of  my  old  Universe  were 
crumbling  fast. 

It  was  not  Christianity  now — as  a  supernatural 
revelation — that  I  even  attempted  to  defend.  It 
was  its  whole  explanation  and  philosophy  of  the 
Universe.  I  saw  clearly  that  the  last  and  great- 
est factor  in  my  old  belief  was  going — that  deep, 
almost  instinctive  sense  of  a  personal  God,  a 
benevolent,  manlike  deity,  bound  to  us  by  ties  of 
affection,  conducting  His  universe  with  constant 
care  for  the  individual  man,  according  to  the 
law  of  love.  Revelation  and  old  authority  once 
put  aside,  what  was  there  to  justify  such  a 
view?  Was  it  true  in  actual  experience  or  ob- 
servation of  life,  human  or  animal?  Was  it 
even  conceivable  ?  Was  it  not,  the  whole  idea,  con- 
sidered broadly,  just  the  naive,  grotesque,  imma- 
ture notion  which  would  naturally  spring  up  in  the 
childhood  of  a  race — one  race,  of  one  particular 
species  of  life,  among  who  knows  how  many  other 
million  species,  known  or  unknown,  living  or  dead 
or  still  to  be  born  in  the  universe?  Gradually, 
though  I  still  instinctively  looked  up  to  Him  in 
time  of  stress  or  trouble,  God  was  fading  from 
the  sky  above  me,  where  He  had  been  watching 
over  me  since  the  dawning  of  my  consciousness. 

When   my   telegram   came,   I   knew  before   I 


My  Own  People  139 

opened  it.  It  was  signed,  as  I  expected,  by  Celeste 
Griswold.  In  half  a  dozen  hours  I  was  back  again 
in  the  lonely  white  house  with  the  pillars.  Celeste 
and  her  father  were  waiting  for  me  there.  I  saw 
again  the  stern-faced  master  of  the  house,  silent, 
in  the  great  bed  beneath  the  dark  steel  engraving 
of  the  crucifixion. 

I  slept  again  that  night,  as  on  the  night  after 
my  grandmother's  death,  in  the  white  guest-cham- 
ber of  the  Griswolds.  It  seemed  so  utterly  un- 
changed in  its  precise  arrangement — the  immacu- 
late high  bed,  the  white  curtains,  the  sense  of 
fragrant  cleanness.  The  street  light,  even,  shone 
exactly  as  it  had  shone  before  in  the  glass  prisms 
that  fenced  the  little  brass  shepherdess  on  the  can- 
dlestick, and  flashed  the  brilliant  little  point  of 
light  upon  which  my  eye  focused  as  I  lay  there 
and  thought. 

It  was  all  the  same — but  I  was  changed,  abso- 
lutely. My  thoughts  were  entirely  different  now. 
My  old  fear  of  death  was  upon  me  still.  But  it 
was  no  longer  that  fierce,  boyish  emotion,  holding 
in  its  very  fierceness  its  own  eager  expectance  of 
relief.  Now  it  was  dull  acceptance  and  despair  be- 
fore a  final  and  inevitable  judgment  of  nature.  It 
was,  in  a  way,  worse  than  the  earlier  emotion — 
more  oppressive.  But  after  a  while  one  could 
sleep.  I  did  sleep. 

There  was  the  usual  melancholy  pressure  of 


140  The  Last  Christian 

the  time  during  those  next  few  days — the  sense  of 
unreality,  of  intolerable  idleness  and  reflection, 
crossed  by  petty  details  of  household  arrangement. 
It  was  Celeste  Griswold  principally  who  took 
charge  of  affairs  for  me — of  the  management  and 
direction  of  the  house.  She  looked  thinner,  a  little 
tired.  With  her  mother's  increasing  sickness  she 
was  under  a  constant  strain. 

And  next  to  Celeste  and  her  father  in  unusual 
kindness  and  support  to  me  came — very  unexpect- 
edly— the  doctor.  His  face,  with  its  kindly,  mock- 
ing smile,  its  old  expression  of  the  knowledge  of 
good  and  evil,  was  drawn  and  sobered.  He  was 
hard  hit  by  what  had  happened;  for  there  had 
been  an  odd  feeling  of  friendship  and  respect  be- 
tween him  and  my  grandfather.  With  me,  my 
grandfather  had  made  him  an  executor  of  his 
estate,  left  as  he  had  promised,  entirely  to  me.  I 
was  glad  to  have  the  doctor  with  me.  His  in- 
telligence and  understanding  became  almost  a 
necessity.  We  talked  considerably  together  about 
my  biology — about  my  future  plans. 

But,  of  all  that  happened  in  that  week,  the 
event  I  most  remember  was  the  last — the  memorial 
prayer  meeting  in  the  vestry  of  the  White  Church. 
My  grandfather  was  a  public  figure,  in  his  way; 
a  pillar  of  support  for  the  White  Church;  a  kind 
of  local  magnate  of  religion.  Some  expression  of 
public  sentiment  was  demanded. 


My  Own  People  141 

It  was  quite  an  occasion,  of  its  kind.  Many 
people  attended  from  outside  the  church— from 
the  village  and  from  the  countryside  for  miles 
around;  for  my  grandfather  had  many  friends  in 
the  country.  There  were  several  clergymen  pres- 
ent: President  Mercer  of  the  Christian  College; 
Dr.  Spurdle,  the  new  minister  of  the  Brick  Church 
in  the  village,  whom  my  grandfather  disliked  so. 
It  all  seemed  strange  to  me,  of  course — stranger 
and  more  old-fashioned  than  ever.  What  inter- 
ested me  most  of  all  were  those  men  from  the 
country,  those  sharp-eyed,  grizzled  farmers. 

The  services  were  led,  naturally,  by  Mr.  Gris- 
wold.  He  was  much  moved.  There  was  the 
same  old  extraordinary  emotional  quality  in  his 
vibrant  voice.  And  in  his  memories  of  my  grand- 
father, and  especially  in  his  prayer  for  "  Thy  serv- 
ant that  is  gone,  and  Thy  young  servant  who  re- 
mains to  succeed  him,"  he  very  nearly  broke  me 
down. 

There  were  grief,  regret,  and  rebellion  in  my 
heart  as  I  sat  there  in  the  worn,  familiar  place — 
the  old  church  vestry.  For  twenty  centuries  men 
had  had  this  emotional  support,  this  belief  in 
supernatural  aid — especially  at  times  like  this. 
Now  I  and  men  like  me  everywhere  were  sud- 
denly deprived  of  it.  Not  by  any  act  or  initiative 
of  our  own,  but  by  force  of  the  knowledge  and 
the  atmosphere  of  the  age  we  were  born  into.  It 


142  The  Last  Christian 

was,  emotionally  at  least,  as  Mr.  Griswold  had  so 
often  said,  a  curse,  an  actual  curse  of  education. 

My  eyes  looked  about,  as  I  thought  it,  to  those 
men  from  the  country,  those  lean,  bearded  farm- 
ers— with  their  sharp  eyes,  their  faces  crisscrossed 
by  New  England  weather,  their  hands  gnarled  and 
stained  like  roots  by  New  England  soil — as  they 
sat  looking  straight  ahead,  their  frail,  thin,  wiry 
wives,  in  their  best  black  dresses,  beside  them. 
What  did  those  men  believe  in  their  heart — those 
men  who  sat  there  stiffly,  thinking  their  own 
thoughts,  but  never  speaking  them?  What  did 
they  believe,  really — this  hard,  secretive,  skeptical 
race  from  which  I  and  mine  were  sprung — my 
own  people?  What  did  they  believe?  Who 
would  ever  know?  What  is  the  belief  of  the  adult 
man?  Who  knows?  Does  he  know  himself? 

And,  naturally,  as  I  thought  of  that,  my  mind 
turned  back  again,  as  it  had  through  all  that  serv- 
ice, to  the  strange  irony  of  the  real  situation — that 
formal  and  pretentious  ceremony  over  the  church 
magnate,  the  man  who  at  heart  was  as  skeptical, 
almost,  as  I  myself. 

The  service  was  nearly  over  now.  Many  things 
had  been  said  that  should  not  have  been — awk- 
ward, fulsome,  grotesque,  in  bad  taste.  But  I 
saw  my  grandfather  only  as  I  saw  him  last,  with 
his  lamp,  going  down  the  passage  way  to  his  empty 
bedroom.  A  wave  of  pride  and  admiration  swept 


My  Own  People  143 

over  me,  for  the  silence  and  grim  courage  of  the 
man. 

"  Whatever  you  believe,  wherever  he  may  be  or 
may  not  be  now,  stand  up  and  bow  your  head  to 
him,"  I  said  to  myself.  "  He  was  a  man!  " 

And  I  knew  that  at  heart  all  those  hard-featured 
people  felt  exactly  the  same  way. 

There  was  an  awkward  pause  when  the  cere- 
mony was  done,  and  very  soon  I  realized  that  I 
myself  was  the  center  of  unusual  curiosity  and  re- 
spect. I  did  not  fully  sense  it  at  the  beginning. 

It  was  Mrs.  Judd  who  greeted  me  first,  her  eye- 
lids, in  her  dull  white  face,  raw  with  another 
festival  of  weeping. 

"  'Your  grandfather  has  gone,  Calvin.  This  is 
now  your  work — your  responsibility." 

In  my  haste  to  break  from  her  I  didn't  quite 
catch  her  meaning. 

Others  followed,  to  shake  my  hand :  Mr.  Doty, 
with  his  white  vest,  his  continual  smile,  led  me 
aside. 

"  Some  time,"  he  said  with  deep  significance, 
while  I  listened  blankly,  "  you  and  I  must  have 
a  talk  together  about  what  it  is  best  to  do  concern- 
ing the  future  of  this  church  of  ours." 

The  group  of  subdued  men  and  women  with 
whom  I  had  met  at  the  prayer  meetings  in  the 
summer  were  particularly  warm  in  their  greet- 
ings and  their  comfort.  The  man  with  the  beard 


144  The  Last  Christian 

and  rigid  face  and  the  gift  of  prayer  pressed  up 
to  me. 

"  Yet  we  are  most  thankful  to  our  God,"  he  ex- 
claimed dramatically,  as  he  grasped  my  hand. 
"  He  has  raised  up  among  us  a  David  who  shall 
threefold  take  the  place  of  Saul." 

Finally,  I  saw.  It  was  a  sequel  to  my  attendance 
on  the  prayer  meetings  with  them  in  the  summer — 
a  most  natural  misunderstanding  of  my  action.  It 
was  their  belief  that  I,  at  my  grandfather's  death, 
with  my  grandfather's  resources,  would  be  a  pillar 
of  their  church.  I  got  away  as  soon  as  I  could.  I 
saw  that  it  was  time  for  me  to  act.  I  was  in  an 
intolerably  false  position,  and  I  must  end  it  at  the 
earliest  possible  moment.  I  must  give  up  my  mem- 
bership in  the  White  Church.  I  was  no  longer  a 
Christian.  I  certainly  could  not  pose  as  a  pillar 
of  a  church! 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  ROAD  INTO  THE  DARK 

THAT  night  I  was  to  leave  again  for  col- 
lege, on  the  early  morning  train.  It  was 
the  best  train  for  me,  all  things  considered. 
And  again  I  was  to  wait  at  my  own  house  until 
train-time. 

That  evening,  for  the  first  time  in  that  empty, 
busy  week,  Celeste  Griswold  and  I  were  alone, 
with  leisure  to  talk  to  each  other. 

"  I  must  be  going  home  pretty  soon,"  I  said. 
"  You  are  tired — tired  to  death." 

She  had  had  the  management  of  both  house- 
holds on  her  shoulders — mine  and  her  father's — 
that  whole  long  week.  And  her  mother  was  a 
constant  care  upon  her,  day  and  night. 

"  Oh,  no,  not  so  very,"  said  Celeste.  "  Stay, 
please.  I  want  you  to  stay." 

For  a  wonder,  she  wasn't  doing  any  work. 
She  leaned  back,  her  hands  in  her  lap,  in  an  easy- 
chair. 

"  Your  mother,"  I  said,  reminded  of  her,  "  how 
is  she — any  better?" 

"  Not  much — not  much  changed,"  she  said. 
145 


146  The  Last  Christian 

"  It's  my  father  now.  My  father  worries  more 
than  my  mother  does,  just  now." 

"  He  isn't  sick?  "  I  asked  her. 

"  No — not  exactly,"  said  Celeste.  "  I  wish 
sometimes  he  were.  Sick  in  his  bed,  I  mean,  so 
that  we  could  make  him  rest.  He  won't  be  still 
now;  he  can't.  He's  like  a  restless  spirit,  wander- 
ing about  the  hills." 

She  stopped,  and  I  waited.  She  was  talking 
low;  soliloquizing,  almost. 

"  Those  walks  of  his — if  we  could  only  keep 
him  from  them,"  she  went  on — "  those  tramps  of 
his  about  the  hills.  But  we  can't;  we  can't  do 
anything  with  him.  Day  and  night,  any  time,  he  is 
likely  to  start  up  and  go  out.  Day  or  night — it's 
all  the  same  to  him.  He  sleeps  so  badly  now — so 
badly,"  she  said,  half  musing,  half  thinking  aloud. 
"  And  then  he  comes  back,  bathed  in  perspira- 
tion, trembling,  out  of  breath.  With  that  and  his 
services  on  Sundays  he  loses  every  ounce  of 
strength  he  has.  Oh,  you  don't  know  how  I 
worry  about  him !  " 

"  Yes,  I  do— a  little,"  I  said. 

"  Suppose  something  should  happen  to  him  out 
there — in  one  of  those  lonely  places,"  she  went 
on.  "  He's  an  old  man  now,  Calvin.  His  arteries 
— his  heart — aren't  so  young  as  they  were.  But 
you  can't  make  him  see  that.  You  can't  make 
him  take  care  of  himself.  He's  so  careless,  so 


The  Road  into  the  Dark  147 

impetuous,  and  so  troubled  now — especially  since 
your  grandfather  died. 

"  It's  struck  him — your  grandfather's  death," 
she  explained,  "  so  much  harder  than  we  know,  or 
can  know.  It's  such  a  shock,  a  change — for  him 
personally,  and  in  the  church.  He  always  relied 
so  much  upon  your  grandfather  there." 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  and  was  silent. 

"  These  old  people,"  said  Celeste  slowly, 
"  father,  especially,  we  can't  understand  how 
things  are  changing  for  them,  passing  away — 
everything!  They  change  fast  enough  for  us — 
but  for  them !  " 

"  It  must  be  horrible,"  I  said,  sensing  it. 

"  It  has  been  very  hard  for  you,  Calvin — this 
week,"  said  Celeste  Griswold  finally,  changing  the 
subject,  "  with  your  new  faith — your  change.  It 
has  been  very  hard,  hasn't  it?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said. 

"  I  have  wanted  to — to  ask  you,"  she  said  hesi- 
tantly. "  Have  you  come  back  at  all  to  what  you 
used  to  believe?  " 

"  No,"  I  answered. 

"  I  thought  not,"  said  Celeste,  and  paused. 

"  Had  you  still  thought  I  would?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Celeste  slowly,  "  not  lately  I 
haven't.  I  have  changed  somewhat,  I  think,  my- 
self. I  wanted  to  tell  you  that,  too.  It  is  only 
fair.  I've  changed — I'm  not  quite  sure  how 


148  The  Last  Christian 

much.  But  some  things,  I  know,  I'm  not  so  certain 
about.  Miracles,  for  instance.  Very  likely  you 
may  be  right;  very  likely  they  didn't  happen." 

"  They  didn't,"  I  said. 

"  But,  oh,"  said  Celeste  Griswold,  "  what  dif- 
ference if  they  didn't?  What  difference  does  it 
make?  We  still  have  the  real  belief — the  real 
essence  of  Christianity.  We  know  that  the  kind- 
ness of  God  watches  continually  over  us,  His 
children." 

Her  eyes  kindled  as  she  spoke. 

"We  can't  help  but  believe  that,"  she  said, 
"  while  we  live.  Can  we?  Can  we?  "  she  asked 
again,  for  I  did  not  answer. 

"  I  don't  believe  that — now,"  I  said  at  last. 

She  stared  at  me  for  a  moment. 

"  Not  even  that !  "  she  said.  "  Not  even 
that?  "  The  life  had  left  her  voice. 

"Not  even  that!"  I  told  her. 

She  fell  back  in  her  chair,  with  an  exclamation 
of  regret. 

"  Why  a  personal  God  more  than  a  personal 
devil?"  I  asked. 

"  Don't,"  she  said  curtly;  "  that's  blasphemy." 

For  several  moments  neither  of  us  spoke. 

Then  I  showed  her  how  false  my  position  had 
become  in  relation  to  the  White  Church,  and 
the  absolute  necessity  of  my  leaving  it.  She  ac- 
quiesced dully  at  first,  as  if  her  mind  were  not 


The  Road  into  the  Dark  149 

really  reached  by  what  I  was  saying.  But  very 
soon  she  was  aroused  again — a  new  and  differ- 
ent interest  in  her  eyes. 

"  Not  to-night,"  she  said  decidedly,  when  I 
proposed  that  I  should  tell  her  father.  "  Not  to- 
night! You  don't  know — you  don't  see  him  as  I 
do.  The  last  two  nights,  ever  since  your  grand- 
father died,  he's  scarcely  slept  at  all.  He  was  out 
last  night — walking.  And  now  again  to-night. 
He'll  come  in  exhausted,  entirely  worn  out.  The 
best  way  will  be  to  write  him — a  little  later,"  she 
continued,  "  after  I've  tried  to  prepare  him  a  little 
for  it." 

I  promised  her  I  would  wait. 

"  Oh,  I  wouldn't  have  him  have  that  strain — 
not  to-night — for  all  the  world!  You  see, — or 
possibly  you  don't  see, — after  last  summer,  after 
you  went  so  often  to  his  prayer  meetings,  he  has 
misunderstood.  He's  counted  so  entirely  on  you." 

"  Yes,"  I  said.  I  saw,  of  course,  that  she  was 
right. 

"  Now,"  she  said  slowly,  "  it's  got  to  come,  I 
suppose.  You  know  what  you  must  do.  But  I 
must  save  him — all  I  can.  That's  my  part.  Oh, 
I  wouldn't  have  him  know  about  me — that  I  had 
changed  at  all."  She  thought  a  moment,  then 
went  on  again:  "I  couldn't;  I  couldn't  take  the 
risk.  I  couldn't!  That's  all.  I  wouldn't  have 
him  even  suspect " 


150  The  Last  Christian 

She  stopped  and  grasped  my  arm.  "  Here  he  is 
now,"  she  said,  and  Mr.  Griswold  came  into  the 
hall. 

I  was  surprised,  after  what  she  had  expected, 
at  the  old  man's  mood  when  I  saw  him  enter. 

He  seemed  almost  buoyant,  in  spite  of  the  worn 
look  upon  his  face. 

"  Let  me  take  them,  father,"  said  Celeste, 
springing  up  and  reaching  for  his  hat  and  cane. 
For  he  had  walked  straight  in  to  where  we  sat 
with  his  hat  still  upon  his  head. 

"  You  see,  Calvin,"  said  the  old  man  to  me, 
as  he  handed  them  to  her,  "  what  goes  on  here 
day  after  day.  This  girl  has  charge  of  everything 
here.  You  don't  realize  what  a  domestic  tyrant 
she  has  become  since  you  knew  her.  Her  mother 
and  I  have  not  a  word  to  say  about  what  we  shall 
do  in  our  own  household.  She  manages  us  both 
like  a  pair  of  great  children." 

"  Certainly  I  do,"  said  Celeste,  smiling. 
"  Somebody  has  to." 

He  smiled  back  at  her,  and  reached  out  and 
patted  her  hand  from  where  he  had  seated  himself 
beside  her. 

"  I  was  just  about  leaving,  Mr.  Griswold,  when 
you  came.  I  am  going  out  on  the  morning  train," 
I  said,  getting  up.  For  I  thought  it  would  be 
safer  not  to  stay  and  talk  with  him. 

"  Not  quite  yet,   Calvin,  my  boy,"  said  Mr. 


The  Road  into  the  Dark  151 

Griswold.  "  You  can  stop  with  us  a  little  while, 
I  think." 

I  said  perhaps,  a  little  longer.  And  I  saw  then, 
I  thought,  Celeste's  disapproval. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  your  grandfather,  Calvin, 
as  I  came  in — of  all  your  race,"  said  Mr.  Gris- 
wold, after  a  silence.  "  They  have  been  plain, 
honest,  God-fearing  people,  all  of  them.  It  is 
something — something  never  to  be  estimated  to 
have  a  Godly  inheritance  such  as  yours." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  I  said  uneasily. 

"  Your  grandfather,"  mused  Mr.  Griswold — 
"  a  silent  man,  not  given  to  words  or  promises. 
But  what  a  man  he  was — what  a  Christian  man ! 
I  can  not  tell  what  he  meant  to  me,  my  boy.  Of 
all  the  men  I  ever  knew,  there  was  no  one — no 
one — that  you  could  tie  to  as  you  could  to  Calvin 
Morgan.  Of  all  the  men  I  ever  knew,  I  think,  I 
liked — him — best." 

The  old  man's  voice  grew  slow  and  husky.  He 
was  silent,  busy  with  old  thoughts.  Our  eyes  were 
on  him — Celeste's  and  mine — as  we  sat  silent, 
waiting,  both  a  little  uneasy.  I  started  up, 
once,  to  go  away.  But  he  still  sat  musing.  I 
could  not  get  the  courage  to  break  in  and  disturb 
him. 

"  And  now  you,  Calvin — I  believe  God  means 
that  you  should  take  his  place,"  he  said,  rousing 
himself. 


152  The  Last  Christian 

"Yes,  sir?"  I  said  a  little  awkwardly.  "I 
want  to  try." 

Celeste  Griswold's  eyes  were  on  me  sharply 
now. 

"  In  his  business,"  said  Mr.  Griswold,  "  with 
men — with  the  church." 

I  could  not  quite  say  yes  to  that. 

"With  the  church,"  said  Mr.  Griswold,  look- 
ing up  quickly  when  I  did  not  answer;  "espe- 
cially with  our  church." 

I  saw  Celeste  Griswold's  tense  look.  I  could 
not  think  of  exactly  what  to  say.  She  started  to 
say  something  then  herself;  but  her  father  an- 
ticipated her. 

"  You  do  not  answer,"  said  Mr.  Griswold, 
looking  sharply  at  my  face.  "  But  you  certainly 
will  not  fail  us.  You  are  a  man  now.  You  will 
take  up,  will  you  not,  when  you  return,  the  duties 
of  your  membership  in  the  Church  of  Christ?  " 
he  asked  severely. 

I  sat  confused,  not  wanting  to  answer,  un- 
willing to  injure  him.  But  now  it  was  impos- 
sible to  escape.  His  suspicions  were  well 
roused. 

"  No,  sir,"  I  stammered  out  at  last.  "  I'm 
afraid — I  can't !  " 

"Can't!  "said  Mr.  Griswold.  "Can't!  Why 
not?" 

He  rose  to  his  feet.     Celeste  and  I  followed 


The  Road  into  the  Dark  153 

him.  Celeste  was  pale  and  speechless.  I  myself 
stood  silent. 

"  I  think  I  don't  quite  understand,  Calvin,"  said 
Mr.  Griswold,  passing  his  hand  across  his  face. 

"  I  am  not  a  Christian — I  don't  believe  any 
longer,  sir,"  I  said,  plunging.  "  I  can't.  So  I'll 
have  to  give  up  my  membership  in  the  church. 
So  I'll  have  to  leave,"  I  ended  lamely. 

"What  change  is  this!"  cried  Mr.  Griswold 
fiercely.  "  You  told  me — you  told  us —  You  came 
to  our  prayer  meetings  all  of  last  summer !  " 

"  Yes." 

"Why,  sir?"  demanded  Mr.  Griswold. 
"Were  you  jeering  at  us?  Were  you  flouting 
us?" 

"  God  knows,  I  never  jeered,  Mr.  Griswold," 
I  said.  "  God  knows,  I  wish  it  were  not  so." 
Beside  him  I  saw  the  white,  strained  face  of  his 
daughter. 

"  I  see,  sir,  I  see,"  said  Mr.  Griswold.  "  You 
are  one  of  these  modern  educated  men!  You  are 
an  infidel,  sir — an  atheist.  You  are  an  enemy  of 
the  Church  of  Christ." 

His  whole  manner  of  address  was  stiff  and 
formal.  Never  before,  of  course,  had  he  ever 
addressed  me  as  "  sir  " — or  as  anything  but  my 
familiar  boyish  name.  He  never  called  me  by  my 
Christian  name  again.  I  had  removed  myself  to 
another  world  than  his. 


154  The  Last  Christian 

"  No,  Mr.  Griswold;  I  am  not  an  atheist — nor 
an  enemy,"  I  said.  "  I  merely  feel — I  feel  that 
to  be  honest  I  must  leave  the  church." 

"  Please !  Don't  go  any  further  now,  father — 
please !  "  said  Celeste,  casting  a  quick  and  re- 
proachful glance  at  me. 

"  No,"  he  answered  her,  and  turned  to  me 
again. 

"  No,"  he  said  to  me.  "  On  the  threshold,  at 
the  edge  of  manhood,  you  desert  us." 

"  I  must  go,  Mr.  Griswold,"  I  said.  "  Can't 
you  see,"  I  went  on,  "I'm  not  the  only  one? 
There  are " 

"No,  sir;  you  are  right,"  said  the  old  man 
quickly,  as  if  listening  for  that  very  thing.  "  Not 
in  our  church.  I  know,  sir.  I  understand  you. 
We  are  losing  members  constantly,  I  know.  But 
there  is  a  particular  reason  here — in  this  church. 
Its  pastor  is  an  old  man.  He  can  not  hold  them. 
He  has  lost  the  gift." 

"  No,"  I  said  quickly,  for  his  self-humiliation 
was  a  shocking  thing  to  see.  He  was  trembling 
as  he  spoke.  "  I  don't  mean  that  at  all.  It  is  the 
same  everywhere — in  all  the  churches.  Member- 
ship may  increase  in  places,  but  the  interest  is 
dying  everywhere." 

The  more  I  talked  the  more  I  blundered. 

"  How  dare  you  say  that,  sir !  "  said  Mr.  Gris- 


The  Road  into  the  Dark  155 

wold.  "  How  dare  you  say  that  of  the  Church  of 
Christ!" 

"  Isn't  it  the  truth?  "  I  asked  him— for  I  was 
excited  now. 

11  Must  I  stand  here,"  said  Mr.  Griswold 
sternly,  "  and  listen  to  such  statements  from  a 
wayward  boy?  " 

And  almost  as  he  said  it  he  clapped  his  hand 
before  his  eyes. 

"  Oh,  my  God,  my  God!  "  he  said.  "  What  is 
upon  us?  What  is  upon  us?  "  And  he  staggered 
back  and  crumpled  down  upon  the  old  sofa  by  the 
wall. 

"  Calvin !  Help  me !  "  cried  Celeste's  voice 
sharply  to  me. 

We  both  sprang  forward  to  support  him. 

He  sat  up  almost  immediately  again. 

"  You  will  excuse  me,  sir,"  he  said.  "  I  have 
these  dizzy  spells  occasionally." 

But  he  kept  his  hand  to  his  eyes  still. 

Celeste  sat  beside  him.  I  stood  awkwardly  be- 
fore them,  waiting. 

"  But  not  you,  Celeste,"  said  Mr.  Griswold 
suddenly.  "  Not  you,  my  girl !  You  have  not 
changed?  I  still  can  trust  in  you." 

"  Have  you  ever  found  you  could  not  trust  me, 
father?  "  said  Celeste. 

Another  question,  not  an  answer !  I  noticed  it 
even  then.  But  he  did  not. 


156  The  Last  Christian 

"  Never,  little  daughter,"  he  said.  "  Never. 
And  never  will."  And  he  took  her  hand  and  laid 
it  against  his  cheek. 

"  And  now  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Griswold,  slowly 
rising,  "  I  will  say  good  night.  Good  night,  sir," 
he  said  to  me.  "  No,  I  thank  you,  I  do  not  re- 
quire your  assistance;  I  can  walk  perfectly  well 
now." 

He  climbed  upstairs  slowly  and  unaided,  steady- 
ing himself  by  the  mahogany  railing  of  the  steep 
old  staircase. 

Celeste  Griswold  and  I  were  silent  when  we 
were  alone  again.  There  was  the  strain  of  great 
grief  in  her  face;  and,  more  than  that,  the  hard- 
ness of  anger. 

"  You  could  have  avoided  that,"  she  said. 

I  acknowledged  that  I  had  been  awkward. 

She  turned  away  from  me  and  walked  toward 
the  white  mantelpiece. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried  bitterly,  "  what  harm  have 
we  ever  done  you,  Calvin  Morgan,  that  you  should 
hurt  him  so?  " 

"  Oh,  for  God's  sake,  Celeste — "  I  said,  pro- 
testing. 

For  it  wasn't  fair;  it  was  preposterous.  The 
last  thing  I  would  willingly  have  done  was  to 
hurt  those  two  people.  They  were  almost  the 
last  two  friends  I  had  on  earth. 

She  kept  her  face  still  turned  from  me. 


The  Road  into  the  Dark  157 

"  Oh,  what  have  you  done !  "  she  said.  "  What 
have  you  done !  " 

"  I  am  sorry,  Celeste,"  I  said  awkwardly.  "  I 
am  very  sorry." 

She  did  not  answer  me. 

"  You  aren't  fair,"  I  said,  and  moved  toward 
her.  She  shrank  away  from  me  without  a 
word. 

"  Later — when  you  think  it  over,"  I  went  on, 
embarrassed,  stumbling  along  to  say  something, 
"  I  will  write— 

At  the  word  she  turned  suddenly. 

"  You  will  not  write  me,"  she  said  sharply — 
"ever!" 

"  Not  write  you !  "  I  exclaimed. 

"  No,  not  now,"  she  answered. 

I  stood  staring  at  her,  for  we  had  written  each 
other  always  since  I  had  been  away  at  college. 

"  Did  you  think  that,  after  to-night — "  she  was 
saying. 

"  Don't,  Celeste !  "  I  broke  in. 

The  whole  thing  seemed  so  bitterly  unjust. 

"  Haven't  you  any  eyes  for  other  people, 
ever?"  asked  Celeste  Griswold.  "Don't  they 
exist  for  you? 

"  What  do  you  think  would  happen  to  my  fa- 
ther if  he  thought  I  was  leaving  him — that  I  was 
going  away,  as  you  have,  to-night?" 

I  did  not  answer. 


158  The  Last  Christian 

"  It  would  kill  him,"  she  said.  "  I  believe  it! 
It  would  kill  him." 

We  were  whispering — so  that  her  father  would 
not  hear. 

She  came  closer  to  me,  looking  cautiously 
up  the  stairway,  speaking  in  a  tense,  fierce 
whisper: 

"  Do  you  suppose,  now,  that  I  will  ever  let 
him  have  the  least  suspicion  that  I  would  leave 
him  that  way?  The  slightest  hint  that  you  had 
taken  me  with  you — even  as  far  as  you  have  taken 
me?  Do  you  think  I  could  let  him  see  you  write 
me  now — week  after  week?  " 

"Do  you  call  that  honest,  Celeste?"  I  said 
angrily. 

"Honest!"  retorted  Celeste  Griswold.  Her 
eyes  blazed  into  mine  and  held  there.  Mine 
dropped  first. 

"  It  will  be  hard  enough  now,  when  he  thinks 
it  over,"  she  went  on  after  a  silence.  "  If  we 
should  write  again,  how  could  he  help — suspect- 
ing? No,  we  won't  write,"  she  said,  concluding, 
"  either  of  us.  That's  all  over." 

"  Celeste — "  I  began.  It  seemed  so  unneces- 
sary, so  absurd. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  You  don't  understand,"  she  said.  "  You 
can't.  You're  not  that  kind;  you  haven't  any 
imagination  that  way.  Men  haven't,  anyway. 


The  Road  into  the  Dark  159 

All  gone — every  one:  your  grandfather — you — 
all  left  him — every  one !  " 

She  stopped,  facing  me  again;  then  went  on  in 
her  fierce,  eager  whisper:  "And  now  I — do  you 
think  I  would  strike  him  that  last  blow !  Do  you 
think  I  would  give  him  one  thought — one  hint 
of  a  thing  that  might  torture  him  to  death?  " 

She  faced  me  a  little  longer,  while  I  tried  to 
speak — then  turned  wearily  away. 

"  No,  we  won't  write  again,  Calvin,"  she  said. 
"  Good  night."  She  moved  back  once  more  to- 
ward the  mantel. 

"  Please  go,"  she  said  very  quietly.  "  Please 
go.  I  wish  you  would  go  now." 

She  laid  her  arms  upon  the  mantelpiece,  her 
face  upon  her  arms.  She  was  not  crying.  She 
stood,  her  shoulders  motionless,  perfectly  still. 

I  started  toward  her — tried  to  speak.  She 
shrank  away. 

"Don't,"  she  said  dully.  "Don't!  Please 
go." 

I  stopped,  considered  a  moment,  turned  toward 
the  outer  door.  I  thought  perhaps  she  might 
speak  to  me.  But  there  was  not  a  word  from  her — 
not  a  sound.  And  so  I  left  the  Griswolds'  house. 
I  broke  finally  the  last  tie  to  the  old  White  Church 
of  my  fathers. 

Outside,  the  stars  shone  blurred  in  a  murky 
sky.  I  smiled  bitterly  when  I  looked  up  at  it.  The 


i6o  The  Last  Christian 

end  had  come,  a  great  turning-point  in  my  life. 
That  faith  of  my  little  childhood — that  ancient 
Hebrew  sky,  peopled  with  strange  presences — 
with  God!  All  gone;  all  passed  away  for  me 
like  some  dead  mythology!  No  doubt,  some- 
where, God  existed.  But  what  could  we  know  of 
Him?  How  could  we  know? 

It  was  warm  still — an  unseasonably  warm  night 
for  October.  As  I  passed  up  the  walk  to  my 
vacant  house,  I  became  conscious  of  the  presence 
of  Mr.  Tubbs  rocking  upon  his  piazza. 

"  Say,"  called  Mr.  Tubbs.  "  Come  over  here 
a  minute,  will  you? 

"  Say,  you  know  that  thing  I've  been  going  to 
speak  to  you  about?  "  he  said  to  me  when  I  had 
gone  over.  "  Well,  this  is  what  it  is  I  wanted  to 
ask  you.  Did  you  ever  think  of  joining  the  Odd 
Fellows?  You  ought  to.  They're  a  great,  big, 
strong  organization.  Any  man  who  can  ought  to 
consider  it  anyhow. 

"  Think  it  over,"  said  Mr.  Tubbs,  when  I  left 
him.  "  Think  it  over." 

He  was  saying  it  as  I  passed  into  my  empty 
house.  He  stopped  as  I  closed  the  door.  But  I 
could  still  hear  the  thump,  thump,  thumping  of 
his  feet  as  he  rocked  on  nowhere,  through  the 
dark. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  VALE  OF  PEACE 

1   SHALL  never  forget  the  strange  and  com- 
plex emotions  of  those  next  few  months.    In- 
deed, they  persist  in  me  still — though  natu- 
rally less  fresh  and  poignant. 

I  had  given  up  my  belief  in  Christianity;  nor 
have  I  ever  since  regained  it.  Intellectually  I 
held,  and  still  hold,  that  the  old  Universe  I  was 
born  into  is  inconceivable  to-day — that  our  pres- 
ent knowledge  shows  that  it  does  not  exist. 
Emotionally,  by  habit  almost  as  deep  as  instinct, 
it  still  persisted.  Still,  instinctively,  under  emo- 
tional stress,  I  raised  my  eyes  upward  to  a  per- 
sonal God  seated  in  the  heavens ;  still,  instinctively, 
I  hoped  that  somewhere  those  other  human  beings 
whom  I  had  loved  and  lost  existed  yet — were  not 
extinguished  at  their  death,  as  were  the  countless 
multitudes  of  other  living  things. 

And  so,  for  months  at  least,  I  was  in  this  curi- 
ous situation:  The  old  Universe,  which  I  had 
given  up  because  of  its  non-existence,  still  existed 
for  me  in  my  instincts  and  emotions.  I  was  an 
exile,  a  self-banished,  spiritual  exile — into  another 

161 


1 62  The  Last  Christian 

Universe  which  my  intellect  said  was  real,  but 
which  my  whole  heart  revolted  against. 

I  know  that  there  is  an  immature,  rather  pa- 
thetic form  of  bravado  which  affects  to  leave 
Christianity  with  joy,  and  goes  off  whistling  into 
the  dark.  But  it  is  not  really  so,  I  believe,  with 
the  thousands  and  thousands  of  men  who,  openly 
or  secretly,  are  going  now  the  way  I  went.  They 
have  gone — all  of  them,  I  think — with  great  re- 
gret. Why  should  it  be  otherwise?  Why  should 
the  individual  human  being  go  out  willingly  from 
that  old  Universe  of  Christianity,  nicely  fitted  up 
by  the  dearest,  deepest  hopes  and  longings  of  the 
race  to  be  the  home  of  Man,  into  a  new,  hostile, 
and  unaccustomed  Universe — a  vast,  unexplored 
space  of  warring  forces,  in  which  the  human  in- 
dividual is  as  negligible  as  an  ant. 

But  it  is  more  than  regret  that  remains — or 
it  was  with  me.  You  can  not  turn  off  a  man's 
belief,  like  water  from  a  faucet — nor  any  other 
deep  habit  of  mind,  I  suppose.  Old  trains  of 
thought,  old  emotions,  old  longings  remain — and 
old  viewpoints,  curious  and  illogical,  but  perfectly 
sincere. 

Occasionally  there  came  back  to  me  again  that 
speculation  of  the  summer.  Was  I  witnessing  the 
disintegration  of  another  great  faith — the  first 
rapid  progress  of  the  fading  away  of  the  Chris- 
tian religion  from  the  earth?  The  idea  still 


The  Vale  of  Peace  163 

shocked  me — terrified  me  in  a  way,  despite  the 
fact  that  I  myself  had  just  formally  renounced  my 
belief. 

I  had  had  acknowledgments  of  my  withdrawal 
from  the  White  Church  soon  after  my  last  inter- 
view with  Mr.  Griswold,  sent  both  by  the  clerk 
of  the  church  and  by  Mr.  Griswold  himself.  Be- 
sides these,  I  had  no  letters  from  the  Street  of 
white  houses — with  the  sole  exception  of  two  from 
the  doctor.  From  Celeste  Griswold  I  had  not 
heard  at  all.  It  was  as  if  a  heavy  door  had  closed 
between  me  and  all  my  past.  I  was  alone — left  to 
work  out,  essentially  by  myself,  a  way  into  the 
new  and  uncertain  Universe  where  my  loss  of 
faith  had  left  me. 

I  was  lonely,  rebellious,  melancholy,  with  the  ro- 
mantic, melodramatic  melancholy  of  youth.  But, 
after  all,  I  had  the  life  and  hope  of  twenty-one; 
and  I  had,  too,  a  restless  and  eager  curiosity 
which  I  know  now  has  always  been  unusual,  per- 
haps abnormal,  with  me.  My  apprentice  work  in 
the  science  of  life  held  me  more  and  more:  I  spent 
my  two  short  vacations  of  that  last  college  year 
at  it,  and  I  now  planned  definitely  to  carry  it  fur- 
ther by  studying  in  Germany. 

And  so  it  was  the  next  summer  after  my  gradu- 
ation before  I  returned  to  the  Street  of  white 
houses  again — and  then  only  preparatory  to  my 
start  abroad. 


164  The  Last  Christian 

It  seemed  very  still  the  afternoon  I  returned 
there — still  with  the  silence  of  a  dozing,  aging 
country  town.  The  pitiless  scrutiny  of  a  sum- 
mer afternoon  sun  shone  upon  the  dusty  street. 
There  was  no  doubt  of  it — the  place  grew  shabby. 

The  trolley  car  that  had  brought  me  thumped 
and  jarred  its  way  into  the  distance.  There  was 
a  woman  somewhere,  singing  in  an  old,  cracked 
voice  that  favorite,  mysterious  song  of  my  child- 
hood: 

"Shall  we  gather  at  the  river?" 

I  stopped  and  listened.  I  had  not  heard  that 
song  before  in  years. 

An  old  cat  lay  stretched  out,  cooling  upon  a 
stone  in  the  shadow  of  our  house;  a  horse 
stamped ;  somewhere  from  the  elm  trees  the  song 
of  the  vireo  came  to  me  again  through  the  hot, 
still  air.  But  nowhere  was  any  one  in  sight. 

I  went  into  the  old  house  with  the  white  pil- 
lars— my  house  now.  Our  old  servant,  the  deaf 
old  "  hired  girl  "  who  kept  it  open,  greeted  me. 
She  lived  alone  in  the  kitchen.  The  old  house  was 
closed  in  front, — like  so  many  houses  in  old  New 
England, — apparently  all  dark  and  dead,  but  still 
with  just  one  spark  of  old  life  at  the  back. 

I  came  out  again,  oppressed;  and  there,  at 
last,  was  a  human  being.  Mr.  Tubbs,  the  organ- 
ist, sat  on  his  porch,  across  the  lawn,  his  carpet 


The  Vale  of  Peace  165 

slippers  on  his  feet.  I  went  over  to  sit  down  with 
him. 

"  Well,  well,  how  are  you?  "  said  Mr.  Tubbs, 
rising  slowly  from  his  old  rocker. 

"Fine,"  I  said.     "How's  everything  here?" 

"  Just  the  same — just  the  same,"  said  Mr. 
Tubbs.  "  Nothing  new." 

"  That's  good,"  I  said. 

"No  excitement;  no  excitement  at  all,"  said 
Mr.  Tubbs,  "  since  the  time  you  nearly  closed 
up  the  White  Church." 

"  Closed  up  the  White  Church !  "  I  said.    "  I  ?  " 

"  That's  what  they  tell  me,"  said  Mr.  Tubbs 
imperturbably. 

"How?"  I  asked. 

"  Your  grandfather  just  about  supported  it, 
didn't  he?"  asked  Mr.  Tubbs. 

"  He  gave  a  good  deal,  I  suppose,"  I  an- 
swered, beginning  to  understand. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  they  counted  on  you  to  do 
the  same,"  said  Mr.  Tubbs.  "  Of  course,  I  don't 
know  anything  about  it,"  he  hastened  to  explain. 
"  I  just  take  what  they  tell  me." 

My  mind  was  occupied  with  the  possibilities 
he  had  suggested. 

"  There  was  a  good  deal  of  talk  about  it," 
said  Mr.  Tubbs. 

"Was  there?"  I  said  absently. 

"  Yes ;  there  was  a  lot  of  it,  when  you  left. 


1 66  The  Last  Christian 

I  don't  believe  I  ever  got  the  straight  of  it.  Did 
you  resign?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Mr.  Tubbs.  "  So  you  re- 
signed  from  the  church.  What  did  you  resign 
for,  when  you  were  once  in?  " 

"They're  all  right  now,  are  they?"  I  asked, 
rousing  myself.  "The  church,  I  mean?" 

"  Oh,  I  guess  so,"  said  Mr.  Tubbs.  "  I'm  get- 
ting my  money  regular  from  them;  I  know  that." 

"  That's  good,"  I  said. 

"  And  they're  going  to  have  the  ordination  of 
the  new  minister  next  week." 

"The  new  minister!"  I  said. 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Tubbs.  "Old  Gris- 
wold  resigned,  and  they've  got  a  new  one  now. 
The  old  man  is  going  to  be  a  kind  of  assistant — 
kind  of  retired  on  a  pension,  you  might  say.  They 
call  him  some  name — emeritus;  that's  it,  ain't  it? 
— pastor  emeritus.  Why,  you  knew  that,  didn't 
you?"  asked  Mr.  Tubbs. 

"  No,"  I  said.  It  certainly  was  strange  that  I 
had  not  heard  it,  in  some  way. 

"  Is  that  so?  "  said  Mr.  Tubbs,  with  the  natu- 
ral satisfaction  of  one  who  bears  important  news. 

"  Yes,"  he  went  on,  enlarging  it.  "  You  ought 
to  have  seen  the  old  man  at  the  first  of  it.  He 
almost  went  crazy  when  they  talked  about  closing 
up  his  church,  at  the  start  there.  Crazy — tramping 


The  Vale  of  Peace  167 

up  and  down  the  town  like  a  lunatic.  Queer  old 
codger,  ain't  he?  I  like  him,  too.  But  he's  a 
kind  of  a  crank,  aint  he?  " 

"What  are  they  living  on — his  family?"  I 
asked  quickly. 

"  I  guess  it  was  pretty  hard  sleddin'  for  a  while 
— for  him  and  his  sick  wife  and  that  girl  of  his," 
said  Mr.  Tubbs.  "  They  were  poorer'n  poverty. 
I  guess  the  girl  took  the  brunt  of  it;  she  had  to. 
The  old  man's  a  child  in  money  matters.  He  al- 
ways gave  away  everything  he  could  lay  his  hands 
on.  But  she's  smart — a  smart  girl,"  said  Mr. 
Tubbs,  winking  broadly  at  me.  "Ain't  she,  eh? 
I  guess  I  don't  have  to  tell  you. 

"  She  kept  them  going  some  way,"  he  went  on, 
when  he  received  no  response  from  me — "  patchin' 
and  darnin'  and  fixin'  them  up.  I  don't  believe 
they've  got  anything  on  that  ain't  been  turned 
three  times.  But  now  I  suppose  it'll  be  different; 
I  suppose  they'll  have  a  little  ready  money." 

I  got  up  and  left  him  and  went  home.  I  wanted 
to  be  alone.  What  had  I  been  responsible  for — 
how  much?  What  had  I  done  to  the  White 
Church — to  its  minister — to  Celeste  Griswold? 
Had  I,  for  all  these  months,  been  an  unconscious 
instrument  in  the  hands  of  fate  for  their  destruc- 
tion? 

So  that  first  afternoon,  although  it  was  already 
quite  late,  I  found  myself  in  the  office  of  Mr. 


1 68  The  Last  Christian 

Doty,  the  new  chief  magnate  of  the  White  Church, 
in  his  growing  and  ever  more  prosperous  stomach 
bitters  factory. 

"Come  right  in;  sit  right  down,"  said  Mr. 
Doty  heartily — taking  my  hand  into  both  of  his 
white,  soft  palms.  His  big  face,  his  white  tie  and 
waistcoat,  his  close,  iron-gray  side-whiskers  even, 
radiated  prosperity  and  an  almost  wanton  good 
will.  His  left  hand  traveled  to  my  shoulder  while 
his  right  still  heartily  shook  mine. 

"  Well,  yes,"  he  said,  when  the  first  excess  of 
greetings  had  passed  away  and  I  had  asked  my 
question.  "  Your  going,  or  your  grandfather's 
going — whichever  way  you  put  it — almost  closed 
us  up." 

His  manner  changed  entirely  as  we  came  down 
to  talking  business.  His  eyes  were  shrewd  and 
confident ;  his  speech  was  terse  and  to  the  point — 
stripped  at  once  of  all  superfluous  ornament. 

"  Yes,  it  did  look  pretty  dark  for  a  while  there 
after  you  left  us,"  said  Mr.  Doty.  "  What  did 
you  do  it  for,  young  man?  "  he  said,  interrupting 
himself.  "What  did  you  do  it  for?  I  never 
could  understand." 

I  murmured  something. 

"Well,  anyway,"  went  on  Mr.  Doty,  after 
listening  attentively  to  it — apparently  in  vain — 
"  anyway,  you  almost  closed  us  up.  The  first 
thing  I  knew  was  Mr.  Griswold  coming  to  me  to 


The  Vale  of  Peace  169 

resign  just  after  you  went  back  to  college.  Why, 
it  was  the  morning  after  you  left!"  said  Mr. 
Doty,  remembering. 

"  *  I'm  too  old,'  he  said.  '  I  should  have  gone 
long  ago.  God's  judgment  is  on  me  for  remain- 
ing. New  blood,  new  blood !  '  he  kept  saying. 
*  You've  got  to  have  a  younger  man.' 

"I  saw  I  couldn't  talk  to  him  then.  I  never 
saw  a  man  in  such  a  state.  He  was  shaking  all 
over.  His  skin  was  as  yellow  as  saffron.  So, 
finally,  I  sent  him  away,  and  said  we  would  con- 
sider it.  We  all  thought  that  he  would  stay  on 
and  finish  out  his  thirty  years,  anyway. 

"  But  when  we  came  to  look  into  it,"  said  Mr. 
Doty,  settling  down  into  his  chair  and  putting  his 
finger-tips  together  before  his  face,  "  the  old  man 
was  right:  something  had  to  be  done.  I'll  tell 
you,"  said  Mr.  Doty.  "  It  looked  so  bad  there, 
first  off,  that  we  just  about  settled  it  that  there 
was  nothing  to  do  but  shut  up  the  old  church. 
Shut  it  up  and  all  go  over  to  the  Brick  Church 
in  the  village — over  to  Dr.  Spurdle's." 

He  stopped  and  looked  at  me. 

"  Now,  there's  the  man  you  ought  to  have  seen 
about  those  doubts  and  qualms  of  yours,"  said 
Mr.  Doty.  "  He'd  have  straightened  you  out 
quicker  than  scat.  He'd  put  you  on  firm  founda- 
tions again.  There's  a  man  that's  educated  with 
the  best  of  them." 


170  The  Last  Christian 

He  stopped  again.  To  my  surprise,  he  began 
to  laugh.  "  Excuse  me,"  he  said. 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked  him. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  something  your  grand- 
father said  about  him  once — about  that  lecture  of 
his,  *  The  Message  of  Sordello.' 

"  *  Who  is  this  Sordello  he  keeps  talking 
about?'  said  your  grandfather.  'Some  Italian, 
eh?  Well,  what's  that  got  to  do  with  religion?  ' 
Your  grandfather  didn't  like  Spurdle,"  explained 
Mr.  Doty,  "  because  he  wore  a  ring,  and  parted 
his  hair  in  the  middle.  But,  just  the  same,  Dr. 
Spurdle's  a  coming  man,"  affirmed  Mr.  Doty 
again.  "  And  I've  seen  a  good  many  ministers. 
I  know  them.  I've  been  on  a  good  many  com- 
mittees to  choose  them  before  I  came  here." 

All  I  knew  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  H.  Wingate  Spur- 
dle were  his  Browning  lectures. 

"  Now  you  know  what  the  sensible  thing  for  us 
to  do  was,"  said  Mr.  Doty,  "  just  as  well  as  I  do. 
It  was  just  as  I  said :  to  close  up  this  church — close 
it  up  and  cut  down  your  overhead  charges.  There's 
room  enough  for  us  all  in  Spurdle's  church,  and 
to  spare.  What's  the  use  of  two  plants,  when  one 
will  do?  Cut  down  your  overhead  charges,"  said 
Mr.  Doty;  "  that's  what  I  believe  in — everywhere. 
It's  good  business;  it's  good  common  sense." 

"  But  the  question  was,"  went  on  Mr.  Doty, 
"what  were  we  going  to  do  with  the  old  man? 


The  Vale  of  Peace  171 

You  couldn't  turn  him  out — not  after  all  those 
years,  could  you?  Especially  when  everybody 
knew  he  hadn't  got  a  dollar.  You  couldn't,  could 
you?" 

"  No,"  I  said  emphatically. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Doty.  "  It  didn't  seem  right 
Nor  closing  up  the  old  church,  either — when  you 
came  right  down  to  it.  That's  one  of  the  oldest 
churches  in  the  State;  did  you  know  it?" 

I  said  I  had  thought  so. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Doty.  "  Oh,  it  wasn't  easy. 
But  we  thought  we'd  have  to  do  it.  But  then,  all 
at  once,  the  old  man  started  out  himself.  We 
didn't  tell  him  about  our  idea  at  first;  but  he  got 
hold  of  it  somewhere,  and  he  came  right  over  to 
my  house  to  see  me  about  it — before  breakfast. 
He  didn't  give  me  time  to  get  up. 

"  He  was  like  a  madman  that  morning,"  said 
Mr.  Doty,  smiling  reminiscently. 

"  '  No,  Mr.  Doty,  never!  '  he  said  to  me.  '  As 
God  is  my  witness,  never !  You  shall  not  close  up 
our  church.' 

II  He  was  just  as  headstrong  about  Dr.  Spurdle. 
He  couldn't  talk  about  him,  even,  without  shout- 
ing.    'My  people — under  that  man?'  he   said. 
'  No ! '    He  doesn't  like  him  any  more  than  your 
grandfather  did.     He  says  he  preaches  Robert 
Browning  instead  of  Christ  crucified,"  explained 
Mr.  Doty,  smiling  again. 


172  The  Last  Christian 

I  could  almost  hear  Mr.  Griswold  saying  it. 

"  '  What'll  you  do? '  I  asked  him,"  Mr.  Doty 
continued.  "  '  We've  got  to  have  money — and 
quite  a  lot  of  it.' 

"  '  Money ! '  said  the  old  man.  *  What  is  money 
to  our  God?  We  can  do  it,'  said  the  old  man. 

"  He  used  to  come  around  to  see  me  every 
morning,  repeating  it :  '  We  can  do  it,  Mr.  Doty. 
We  can  do  it.  It'll  all  come  right.' 

"  Well,  we  did,"  said  Mr.  Doty,  "  finally.  But 
we  never  would  have  without  the  old  man.  He 
must  have  been  a  strong,  powerful  man  in  his 
day,"  commented  Mr.  Doty.  "  I  never  saw  any- 
body like  him.  He  wore  us  all  out  getting  that 
money.  He  was  at  it  night  and  day — till  finally  it 
came.  But  it  'most  killed  him  getting  it.  Toward 
the  last  of  it  he  trembled  so,  I  thought  he  must 
have  the  palsy.  But  he  kept  right  at  it.  He  got 
money  out  of  people  who  never  gave  a  dollar  be- 
fore in  their  lives." 

"  He  didn't  ask  me,"  I  said. 

"  Well,  no,"  said  Mr.  Doty.  "  No.  We  spoke 
of  that.  But  Mr.  Griswold  wouldn't  have  it.  He 
said  the  Church  of  Christ  couldn't  take  the  money 
of  an  infidel.  Those  are  his  words,  you  under- 
stand." 

"  Yes,  I  understand,"  I  assured  him. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Doty;  "finally  we  raised  it. 
We  raised  quite  a  good  deal  by  subscription,  and 


The  Vale  of  Peace  173 

then  some  of  us  took  a  mortgage  on  the  church 
property.  Well,  we  got  the  debts  pretty  well 
cleared  up.  And  then — then  the  old  man  was  go- 
ing to  step  down  and  out,  anyway. 

"  *  Young  blood;  that's  what  you  got  to 
have,'  he  kept  saying.  *  I'm  too  old ;  my  time 
is  past.' 

"  But,  of  course,  we  couldn't  hear  to  his  leav- 
ing us  entirely,"  said  Mr.  Doty.  "  That  wouldn't 
do — not  after  all  he  had  been  doing.  So  then, 
finally,  we  fixed  it  up  this  way:  we  took  his  old 
salary,  twelve  hundred  dollars,  and  gave  him  five 
hundred  dollars  of  it.  And  the  rest  we  took  and 
got  a  young  minister  just  out  of  theological 
seminary." 

"  Can  the  Griswolds  live  on  five  hundred  dol- 
lars a  year?  "  I  asked. 

"  He  says  they  can,"  said  Mr.  Doty. 

"  What  kind  of  a  man  is  the  new  minister?  " 
I  asked,  after  a  little  wait. 

"Mr.  Millett?"  said  Mr.  Doty.  "Oh,  he's 
a  good  young  man.  But,  when  you  think  of  it, 
what  can  you  get  for  seven  hundred  dollars  a 
year?  You  can't  get  much  of  a  preacher  nowa- 
days for  that  money,  can  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  replied. 

"  No.  And  you  don't  seem,"  he  said  reflec- 
tively, "  to  have  so  much  to  pick  from,  anyhow, 
as  you  used  to.  They  don't  seem  to  get  such  good 


174  The  Last  Christian 

stock  into  the  ministry  as  they  did.  Do  you  think 
so?" 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  I  do  not." 

"  No;  I  tell  you,"  continued  Mr.  Doty,  getting 
up  and  closing  his  desk,  "  about  all  we  can  expect 
now  is  to  keep  the  old  church  going  while  Mr. 
Griswold  lasts. 

"Well,  shall  we  walk  along  home  together?" 
asked  Mr.  Doty  then.  His  manner  was  changed 
once  more — from  the  business  to  the  personal. 
He  was  fixing  the  collar  of  my  coat. 

"  I  want  you  two  men  to  get  together,  my  boy — 
you  and  Dr.  Spurdle,"  he  said  solicitously.  "  I 
want  you  to  have  a  talk  with  him  some  time.  He'll 
fix  you  up;  he'll  fix  you  up  in  two  shakes  of  a 
lamb's  tail.  You'll  be  back  with  us  yet." 

He  left  me,  with  this  hope,  at  my  gate.  I  went 
in,  and  up  to  my  own  old  room ;  and  sat  down  to 
try  and  think  the  situation  out.  It  was  supper- 
time  before  I  had  got  anywhere. 

After  supper  Mr.  Tubbs  called  me  over  to 
his  porch  across  the  lawn.  His  sociability  grew 
already  a  little  oppressive.  For  he  was  more 
than  agreeable ;  he  was  hungry  for  companionship 
in  his  vigil  up  on  his  porch — and  an  opportunity 
to  talk.  He  conversed  equably  and  endlessly 
on  local  history,  from  the  text  of  occasional 
passers-by. 

,The  bell  of  the  White  Church  began  to  ring,  as 


The  Vale  of  Peace  175 

he  talked — arousing  again  a  thousand  memories, 
bringing  back  again  the  whole  atmosphere  of  my 
childhood.  I  realized  that  it  was  prayer  meeting 
night.  And  soon  we  saw  passing  the  few  attend- 
ants— the  women  in  black  gowns,  the  three  or 
four  bent  old  men — the  same  old,  slow,  black- 
clothed  flock  of  Mr.  Griswold's  Thursday  evening 
meetings,  but  smaller,  a  little  smaller,  always 
dwindling  year  by  year. 

"  The  old  man  still  keeps  going,"  said  Mr. 
Tubbs. 

I  looked  down  the  street,  and  saw  Mr.  Gris- 
wold,  with  his  Bible  in  his  hand.  He  seemed  a 
little  less  steady  in  his  walk. 

"  He's  getting  kind  of  wabbly,"  said  Mr. 
Tubbs.  "  He's  aged  a  lot  these  last  six  months." 

And,  as  he  spoke,  it  struck  me  that  I  had 
not  seen  Celeste  Griswold  going  in  to  the 
service. 

"No;  she  stays  at  home  with  her  mother," 
said  Mr.  Tubbs,  to  my  question. 

"  I  believe,"  I  said,  more  or  less  transparently, 
a  little  later,  "  I'll  walk  down  the  street  a  while." 

Mr.  Tubbs  took  my  departure  as  something  to 
be  expected.  But  when  I  was  half  way  down  his 
walk  he  recalled  something. 

"  Say,  you  ain't  forgot  about  the  Odd  Fellows, 
have  you?"  called  Mr.  Tubbs. 

"  No,"  I  said,  stopping  and  turning  around. 


176  The  Last  Christian 

44  We're  gettin'  stronger'n  ever  in  this  town," 
said  Mr.  Tubbs.  44  Some  day — and  it  ain't  so  far 
off,  either — we're  going  to  have  our  own  hall  here, 
so  we'll  have  an  agreeable  meetin'-place  for  every- 
body." 

I  walked  along. 

I  had  not  known  what  I  should  do  about  seeing 
Celeste  Griswold,  after  that  long  silence  of  hers. 
I  had  debated  it  many  times.  But  now  it  was  no 
longer  a  matter  of  debate.  Now  that  I  was  here, 
an  impulse  stronger  than  myself  moved  and  con- 
trolled me.  I  remember  well  the  crunch  of  my 
feet  upon  the  gravel  walk  of  the  parsonage — the 
curious  little  catch  in  my  breath  as  I  went  up  the 
steps.  Through  the  low  window  of  the  old  house 
I  could  see  Celeste  inside,  sewing. 

I  knocked,  stepped  up,  and  stood  in  the  open 
doorway.  She  rose,  unconscious  of  my  presence 
there  or  in  the  town,  and  came  toward  me.  There 
were  a  number  of  greetings  I  had  practised  in 
my  mind  before  our  next  meeting — bitter,  gener- 
ous, flippant.  All  that  I  really  said  was  u  Celeste  " 
— a  little  hoarsely. 

She  said  nothing  at  all.  Her  hand  came  up 
before  her  face  with  a  sudden  motion  of  warding 
me  away. 

44  May  I  come  in?  "I  asked. 

44  Yes,"  answered  Celeste  in  a  low  voice. 

44 1  was  not  sure,"  I  stammered. 


The  Vale  of  Peace  177 

"Sure?"  she  asked,  in  a  somewhat  louder 
tone. 

"  That  I  should  be  welcomed." 

"Please  don't!  "  she  said. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Celeste,"  I  replied. 

"  We're  not  like  that — you  know  it,"  said 
Celeste  Griswold's  clear  voice,  with  a  touch  of 
quick  resentment. 

"  I  could  scarcely  blame  you  if  you  were, 
Celeste,"  I  said. 

We  had  seated  ourselves,  without  even,  as  I 
remember,  shaking  hands. 

"  The  first  thing  I  want  to  say,"  I  went  on  hur- 
riedly, "  before  anything  else,  I  want  to  tell  you: 
I  did  not  know — I  hadn't  the  slightest  idea  of 
what  had  happened  here  until  I  came  this  after- 
noon. I  didn't  even  know  your  father  had 
resigned." 

She  glanced  up.  Her  eyes,  clear  and  direct, 
met  mine — then  looked  down  again. 

"  How  is  your  father,  Celeste?  "  I  asked. 

"  Pretty  tired,"  she  answered.  She  had  taken 
her  sewing  into  her  lap  again. 

"  Celeste,"  I  said,  "  I  can't  tell  you  how  sorry  I 
am — how  disgusted  with  myself  for  causing  him 
all  that  trouble." 

"  You  didn't  cause  it,"  said  Celeste.  She  had 
begun  to  sew  now. 

"  I  set  it  going,"  I  said. 


f7$  The  Last  Christian 

"  No,"  said  Celeste,  letting  her  work  drop  into 
her  lap  again.  "  I  thought  so  at  first.  But  it 
wasn't  so.  If  anything,  I  should  beg  your  pardon 
for  my  quickness  that  night.  But  you  know  how 
I  am.  When  you  hurt  my  father  so,  I  couldn't 
bear  it.  I  can't  ever  bear  to  see  him  hurt — at  all. 
And  when  he  fell " 

"  I  know,"   I  said. 

"  But  it  wasn't  your  fault,"  she  went  on;  "I 
saw  that  long  ago.  Nor " 

"  Yet  you  didn't  write,"  I  said  quickly. 

"I  couldn't  write;  you  know  that,"  said  Ce- 
leste Griswold,  looking  up  at  me  again.  "  I  can't 
write  you  now." 

"  The  church  is  still  to  go  on?  "  I  asked,  after 
a  silence. 

"Yes." 

"  It  will  never  be  the  same  to  me,"  I  said, 
"  without  your  father." 

I  never  could,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  think  of  one 
without  the  other.  But  then  I  thought  how 
strange  that  might  sound  from  me  now. 

"  For  I  do  think  a  great  deal  of  the  church 
and  of  your  father,  Celeste,"  I  added. 

"  I  know  you  do,  Calvin,"  she  said  quietly. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  something,"  I  said  at  last. 
"  You  know,  I've  got  my  grandfather's  money  now 
— all  of  it.  And  since  I've  had  it  the  church  hasn't 
had  any — the  way  it  used  to  with  him.  That's 


The  Vale  of  Peace  179 

what  I've  done — that's  what  happened.  Isn't  it? 
I  didn't  understand — not  until  to-day.  But  it  is 
as  if  I  had  taken  it  away  from  the  church,  and 
from  your  father " 

Celeste  had  stopped  sewing  and  was  looking  at 
me  keenly.  She  did  not  speak;  she  waited.  I 
stumbled  on,  embarrassed. 

"  And  his  work,  I  mean,"  I  added.  "  Now,  Ce- 
leste, what  I  thought  was  this — that  is,  perhaps 
you  would  do  it,  I  mean.  Now,  can't  you  think 
up  some  way  for  some  of  that  money  to  go  to  the 
White  Church?  That  your  father  would  let  them 
take  it,  I  mean  to  say. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  hurrying,  "  and  that  some  of  it 
would  come  to  him,  too.  It's  a  shame,  the  way  it 
is,"  I  went  on,  getting  more  excited  and  confused. 
"  It  isn't  fair,  the  way  it  is.  They  haven't  given 
him  anything  much — the  church.  And  here  I  have 
this — more  than  I  want.  And  I  thought " 

"  We  are  not  beggars,"  said  Celeste  Griswold, 
flushing. 

"Oh,  Celeste!"  I  said. 

She  was  so  quick,  always. 

"  He  wouldn't  take  it.  Nor  the  church,  either," 
she  said — and  stopped. 

Then  suddenly  she  laughed — seeing  my  face, 
I  suppose. 

"  The  same  boy,"  she  said.  "  The  same  old 
dreaming,  impractical  boy.  Look,  Calvin.  How 


i8o  The  Last  Christian 

could  we  take  your  money?  Put  yourself  in  our 
place." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Celeste,"  I  said. 

"  Don't,"  she  said — "  don't  do  that  again.  I 
am  afraid  it  is  I  again  who  ought  to  beg  yours. 
You  are  generous.  You  always  were." 

"  No,"  I  said.  "  I  was  responsible,  in  a  way, 
for  everything." 

"  No,"  said  Celeste  Griswold.  "  I've  thought 
it  over  a  great  many  times.  It  is  not  your  fault, 
nor  mine — nor  any  one's.  It's  something  else — 
something  bigger  than  ourselves." 

"  It's  inevitable,"  I  said,  suddenly  sensing  it. 
"  It's  the  times — the  spirit  of  the  times." 

She  gave  a  little  start;  I  asked  her  why. 

"  Nothing,"  she  said;  "  nothing,  except  that  you 
said  it  in  exactly  the  same  words  that  came  to  me. 
It  is  inevitable.  It  isn't  ourselves;  it  is  every- 
thing that  surrounds  us.  It  carries  us  along 
with  it. 

"  No,"  she  said,  musing;  "  it's  no  one's  fault — 
neither  yours  nor  mine.  It's  inevitable;  that's  it. 
Life  takes  people  that  way,  doesn't  it  ?  And  turns 
them  in  different  directions?  You  and  I  are  on  en- 
tirely opposite  paths;  that's  all." 

"  No,"  I  said  quickly. 

"  Could  they  be  more  different?  "  she  asked. 
"  You're  going  to  Germany,  they  say,  to  study  that 
new  thing,  that  last  new  knowledge  of  the  world — 


The  Vale  of  Peace  181 

of  which  I  shall  know  nothing,  ever,  I  suppose.  I 
shall  stay  here  with  my  father — and  his  church." 

"No;  I  don't  believe  it,"  I  said. 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  Celeste — and  got  up. 

.There  was  some  one  at  the  door,  a  woman 
whispering,  I  gathered,  about  her  mother's 
health :  "  How  is  she  feeling  to-night?  Is  she  hap- 
pier? No,  I  won't  come  in,  thank  you.  I  just 
thought  I  would  ask." 

It  seemed  to  me,  as  I  listened,  that  it  was  Miss 
Avery's  voice  speaking.  Celeste  came  back  again 
when  she  was  gone.  She  seemed  a  little  troubled 
— disturbed. 

"  Your  mother  is  no  better?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,"  she  answered. 

I  had  thought  not.  I  had  heard  her  coughing 
while  we  talked;  and  once,  at  a  particularly  bad 
paroxysm,  I  saw  Celeste  Griswold's  hands  clench 
themselves,  and  noticed,  when  they  were  un- 
clenched, the  red  marks  of  the  nails,  where  they 
had  been  buried  in  her  palm. 

"  Don't  you  get  frightfully  tired  sometimes,  Ce- 
leste ? "  I  asked  her.  "  All  this  care — your 
mother!  It's  too  much." 

"Too  much!  "  said  Celeste  Griswold  sharply. 
"My  mother!" 

I  went  away  soon  after  that.  It  was  nearly 
time  for  closing  the  prayer  meeting. 

"  My  father  will  want  to  see  you  later,  Calvin," 


1 82  The  Last  Christian 

Celeste  said,  sending  me  away.  "  But  not  to- 
night, I  think.  He's  too  tired,  too  excited  over 
the  ordination  next  week.  After  that " 

"  Oh,  all  right,"  I  said. 

'"Twenty-seven  years,"  said  Celeste. 

"  Is  it  so  long  as  that?  "  I  asked,  fully  realiz- 
ing it  for  the  first  time. 

"Yes,"  she  repeated;  "twenty-seven  years. 
It's  like  death  to  him,  I  know — this  time  now. 
He's  scarcely  mentioned  it  once — to  me;  scarcely 
once.  He  couldn't,  I  think — he  couldn't.  I  think 
I  understand." 

11  Yes,"  I  said,  nodding. 

"  It  is  his  life,"  she  went  on,  "  the  old  church. 
If  anything  should  happen  to  it  now — if,  after  all, 
they  should  fail,  he  couldn't  survive  it,  I  think; 
he  couldn't  bear  it." 

"  No,"  I  said.    "  I  don't  believe  he  could." 

I  was  none  too  soon  in  leaving.  The  slow, 
old,  black-dressed  flock  were  coming  out  again 
from  prayer  meeting.  I  saw  them  as  I  passed — 
Mrs.  Judd;  the  tall  old  woman  who  was  in  con- 
stant anxiety  about  the  Hereafter;  the  bearded 
man  with  the  gift  of  prayer.  Only  the  last  came 
by  me — head  down,  Bible  in  hand.  He  hesitated 
a  moment,  and  a  gleam  lighted  in  his  eye.  I 
thought  he  would  certainly  stop  and  denounce  me. 
Then  he  bowed  stiffly  and  we  passed  each  other. 

So,  in  these  next  few  days  before  the  ordina- 


The  Vale  of  Peace  183 

tion,  I  saw  Celeste  Griswold  and  her  father  only 
as  they  passed  by  on  the  street.  I  spent  some  time 
with  the  doctor,  planning  for  my  study  abroad.  I 
set  up  the  continuation  of  a  minor  experiment  of 
my  own  in  an  old  shed  in  the  rear  of  the  lawn, 
for  I  could  not  keep  my  hands  off  my  work  then, 
even  for  a  few  weeks.  And,  meanwhile,  I  saw  the 
preparation  for  the  ordination. 

It  was  an  observance  of  some  consequence 
locally.  For  the  White  Church  was  quite  a  famous 
old  landmark  now,  and  the  length  of  service  of 
the  retiring  pastor  was  most  unusual.  It  was 
really  Mr.  Griswold  who  was  the  figure  in  the  new 
minister's  ordination  and  installing. 

When  the  afternoon  came,  at  last,  I  saw  the 
exercises  from  beginning  to  end,  seated  in  our  old 
pew.  It  was  mine  still  legally,  in  spite  of  my 
severance  from  the  church.  It  had  been  the  prop- 
erty of  my  people  for  five  generations. 

It  was  June,  and  the  old  church  was  dressed 
with  the  flowers  of  the  season — old-fashioned 
flowers :  pale  pink  roses,  yellow  lilies,  and  syringas ; 
decked  out,  the  thought  struck  me  as  I  looked 
around,  like  the  withered  bride  at  a  golden  wed- 
ding. Behind  the  decorations,  the  place  stood 
worn  and  faded  and  old. 

On  the  platform  were  Mr.  Griswold,  several 
other  figures  that  I  knew,  and  Mr.  Millett,  the 
new  man.  I  saw  him  then  for  the  first  time.  He 


1 84  The  Last  Christian 

seemed,  at  first  glance,  very  young  and  very  slight 
and  pale. 

It  was  Dr.  Mercer,  president  of  the  Christian 
College,  who  began  the  speaking.  He  dwelt  most 
gracefully  upon  the  pleasure  of  the  occasion — the 
vigorous  joy  of  the  younger  man  girding  up  his 
loins  for  his  life-work;  on  the  happiness  and  calm 
of  his  dear  old  friend,  who  was  passing  so  pleas- 
antly, his  labors  well  accomplished,  into  the  vale 
of  peace. 

The  figure  of  the  new  minister,  it  seemed  to  me, 
did  not  warrant  the  comparison  with  the  eager 
athlete.  He  seemed  anemic,  rather;  his  face  had 
a  look,  a  peculiar  look,  as  if  he  were  frightened. 
Beside  him  the  stern  and  haggard  face  of  Mr. 
Griswold  suggested  very  little  the  aged  servant 
about  to  rest  peacefully  from  his  labors. 

Mr.  Griswold  himself  spoke  next,  giving  the 
sermon  of  the  day.  His  underlying  theme  was  the 
church — the  temple  of  God.  He  gave  his  text, 
and  repeated  it,  according  to  his  old  custom. 
It  was  from  Habakkuk — a  verse  long  familiar 
to  my  childhood:  "  But  the  Lord  is  in  his  holy 
temple:  let  all  the  earth  keep  silence  before 
him." 

His  voice  shook  just  a  little,  I  thought,  as  he 
read  it.  He  paused  for  a  moment  afterward.  His 
hand  lay,  palm  up,  upon  the  great  open  Bible. 
I  remember  I  could  see  his  big  thumb  trembling 


The  Vale  of  Peace  185 

with  weakness  and  excitement.  Otherwise  he  was 
motionless. 

Had  any  figure  in  my  life,  I  was  asking  myself, 
ever  made  such  a  mark  upon  my  imagination? 
Was  any  memory  of  my  childhood  so  impressive? 
There  was  a  touch  of  the  supernatural  in  my  re- 
membrance of  him :  Divine  Authority  personified, 
almost  divinity  it-self,  in  those  first  dim  years ;  the 
man  of  God,  the  prophet  of  the  faith.  And  now, 
I  saw,  his  coat  was  very  shiny  at  the  shoulders; 
one  of  his  immaculate  cuffs  had  been  over-worn. 
A  thin,  weary,  aged  man — nothing  more. 

"  You  and  I  have  met  together,"  he  began, 
"  here  in  the  silence  of  the  shadow  of  the  Al- 
mighty, how  many  times — how  many  times?  [To- 
morrow no  more,  no  more — not  as  we  have  been." 

I  watched  him  closely — we  all  did.  His  solemn 
voice  filled  the  auditorium,  as  in  my  childhood. 
He  was  rousing  himself  again  for  another  sermon 
of  warning,  but  more  eccentric,  it  seemed  to  me, 
more  broken  in  its  language  and  its  logic. 

"  Many  of  us  are  gone.  There,  and  there,  and 
there !  "  he  said,  darting  his  long  forefinger  from 
one  place  to  another  in  the  empty  pews.  "  We 
see  them  still,  you  and  I,  as  they  gathered  sunny 
summer  mornings  here  in  the  courts  of  the  most 
high  God — to  our  worship." 

He  stopped,  his  lean,  wiry  figure  tense,  his  thin 
face  more  skull-like  than  ever. 


1 86  The  Last  Christian 

My  memory  voyaged  out  again  across  the  past. 
Its  figures  started  back  to  life  once  more  at  the  call 
of  that  sonorous  voice.  My  grandfather  sat  mo- 
tionless, his  booted  legs  crossed,  by  the  pew  door; 
my  grandmother,  shrunk  beneath  her  tiny  shawl  at 
the  other  end;  and  I  myself  half-way  between 
them.  And  others,  many  others,  all  gone,  too. 

A  few  were  left:  across  the  aisle,  Mr.  Doty, 
shining  in  his  white  vest  and  tie ;  across  the  church, 
Celeste  Griswold.  She  sat  in  the  posture  in  which 
I  remembered  her  even  as  a  little  girl — hands 
folded  in  her  lap,  her  decorous,  attentive  church 
attitude.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  keenly,  a  little 
anxiously,  on  her  father's  face. 

"  Gone,  all  gone,"  said  Mr.  Griswold's  tre- 
mendous voice.  "  Gone !  But  here,  we  know,  in 
this  sanctuary  still  abides,  the  presence  of  the  Most 
High  God,  and  will  abide,  when  we  are  no  longer 
even  memories.  Round  us,  round  us  everywhere," 
he  called  solemnly,  sweeping  with  his  great  hand, 
"  we  feel  Him,  we  know  Him  near.  Do  you  doubt 
it?  Do  any  of  you  doubt  it — who  all  these  years 
have  felt  the  Presence  with  you  in  this  holy 
place? 

"  And  yet — "  He  paused,  lowering  his  voice. 
"  And  yet,  about  us  everywhere,  questionings, 
whisperings,  and  pointings  in  the  marketplaces  of 
men — in  the  seats  of  the  scornful.  '  Will  God's 
church  survive  ?  '  they  ask — not  here,  but  every- 


The  Vale  of  Peace  187 

where.  Will  the  holy  tabernacle,  where  you  and 
I  have  worshiped,  survive  these  growing,  grow- 
ing, growing  attacks  upon  it?  Let  us  see." 

It  was  an  old-time  exhortation. 

"  Let  us  take  our  knowledge  of  God's  chosen 
people — the  years  that  led  on  to  the  destruction  of 
the  Temple." 

My  mind  went  drifting  off  again  to  memories. 
The  day  was  warm ;  the  strong,  sweet,  reminiscent 
odor  of  the  syringas  filled  the  place.  The  voice  of 
the  preacher  came  through  to  me  at  intervals,  by 
snatches,  as  he  set  forth  God's  vengeance  on  the 
offending  Jews.  He  called  out  great,  roaring 
mouthfuls  from  the  prophets,  the  awful  curse  of 
Jeremiah  upon  Judah: 

"  '  Such  as  are  for  death,  to  death;  and  such 
as  are  for  the  sword,  to  the  sword.  .  .  .  And  I 
will  appoint  over  them  four  kinds,  saith  the  Lord : 
the  sword  to  slay,  and  the  dogs  to  tear,  and  the 
fowls  of  the  heaven,  and  the  beasts  of  the  earth, 
to  devour  and  destroy.'  " 

I  lost  the  thread  after  that,  drifting — caught 
it  up  again. 

"  Such  was  the  fate  of  Israel.  And  what  of  us 
to-day?  What  of  this  generation?  Doubt?  "  he 
was  saying.  "Yes!  Unbelief?  That,  too.  New, 
strange  beliefs,  indifference,  our  so-called  educa- 
tion? Yes." 

He   roused  himself  as  of  old  to  the  height 


1 88  The  Last  Christian 

of  his  exhortation — perspiration  running  in 
streams,  his  collar  withered,  a  string  upon  his 
neck. 

"  Lies,  abominations — all  destined  to  quick  and 
final  downfall.  Destroyed,  broken,  on  the  Pre- 
cious Corner-stone — the  Sure  Foundation  foreseen 
by  Isaiah  in  his  prophecy.  But  woe  to  the  gen- 
eration that  cherishes  them ! 

"  The  gospel  of  our  Lord — the  light  of  all 
men  fading?  Do  we  see  it  fading — going  from 
us?  Do  we?  Can  we  even  dream  of  a  world 
from  which  that  light  so  freely  given  was  with- 
drawn? Withdrawn — gone!  And  darkness  and 
desolation  and  despair  settled  once  again  upon  the 
eyes  and  souls  and  understanding  of  men.  No — 
no !  "  he  shouted.  "  Your  soul  recoils,  and  every 
fiber  of  your  body.  And  every  instinct  and  hope 
within  you  cries  aloud,  *  No.  A  thousand  times, 
no—no ' !  " 

His  climax  had  come  and  gone.  It  was  an  old 
man's  outburst  of  emotion — unusually  strong,  but 
soon  expended.  He  passed  on  in  a  gentler  voice, 
recalling  the  loving-kindnesses  of  God  manifested 
to  them  always,  in  those  years  together;  his  salva- 
tion, unmeasured,  free  to  all.  He  spoke  of  the 
passing  of  every  man  out  of  the  heat  of  the  day; 
the  coming  of  the  night,  when  no  man  works ;  and 
finally — tiredly,  huskily — of  the  laying  down  of 
the  burden  upon  younger,  stronger  shoulders.  And 


The  Vale  of  Peace  189 

so  on  through  his  kindly,  friendly  introduction  of 
his  successor. 

They  seemed  rather  narrow  shoulders  that  were 
to  take  the  load,  as  they  appeared  in  the  old  Gothic 
pulpit  chair.  He  was  very  frail  and  shrinking — 
Mr.  Millett.  The  impression  of  the  scared  look 
upon  his  face  grew  upon  me. 

Several  others  spoke.  Dr.  Spurdle,  I  remem- 
ber, fashioned  his  address  upon  the  meeting  of 
Paul  and  the  men  of  Athens  before  the  altar  of 
the  Unknown  God.  He  dwelt  first,  easily,  upon 
Spencer's  Unknowable;  the  hesitations  of  the  be- 
lief of  the  present  day — answering,  smoothing  over 
Mr.  Griswold's  fierce  denunciations  and  fears. 
But  mostly  he  wove  his  sentences  about  the  altars 
of  the  Greeks — spoke  of  the  meeting  of  faith  and 
culture  in  our  day.  Palestine  had  given  us  duty: 
Greece  had  brought  us  joy.  It  was  not  too  much, 
with  our  new  understanding,  to  say  that  the  two 
united  in  the  New  Testament.  We  must  not  fail, 
then,  to  thrill  with  the  joys,  the  holy  joys,  of 
duty;  nor  be  remiss  in  the  daily  performance  of 
our  joy.  For,  in  this  happy  fusion  of  our  new 
faith,  joy  was  duty.  Duty  was  great  joy.  He 
quoted,  as  he  ended,  a  wordy,  cloudy  passage  from 
"  The  Ring  and  the  Book." 

The  eyes  of  Mr.  Griswold  were  on  him  for  a 
time.  His  eyebrows,  I  noticed,  had  grown  more 
shaggy  lately;  his  eyes  gleamed  out  from  beneath 


190  The  Last  Christian 

them — for  a  time  at  Dr.  Spurdle.  But  then  they 
turned  wearily  away.  They  rested  mostly,  drawn 
by  a  compulsion  he  could  not  control,  upon  the 
figure  of  the  youth  who  was  to  succeed  him. 

.The  end  had  come  at  last.  They  stood  to- 
gether— the  array  of  ministers  upon  the  platform 
— while  the  new  pastor  pronounced  the  benedic- 
tion. He  seemed  a  nice  boy,  but  certainly  fright- 
ened. His  Adam's  apple  moved  up  and  down  in 
his  thin  neck;  his  voice  was  uneven  and  aspirate. 
I  had  a  definite  impression  of  him  now,  which 
never  left  me  afterward — the  image  of  a  scared 
boy,  trembling  before  Almighty  Jehovah,  weighed 
down  under  the  tremendousness  of  the  responsibil- 
ity of  the  souls  of  his  congregation  placed  under 
his  charge  and  guidance.  Beside  him  stood  the 
straight,  tall,  bearded  figure  of  the  old  minister, 
Mr.  Griswold,  held  erect  to  its  full  height,  with 
the  last  conscious  muscular  effort  of  a  tired  old 
man. 

They  gathered,  naturally,  around  the  new  min- 
ister at  the  end  of  the  service.  Why  not?  It  was 
his  day,  after  all.  And  yet,  it  seemed  melancholy 
to  me — the  sight  of  the  figure  of  old  Mr.  Griswold 
slowly  descending  the  pulpit  stair  alone.  A  big, 
coarsely  molded  figure,  made  strong  for  the  ordi- 
nary uses  of  life,  and  worn  with  that  usage — worn, 
and  neglected  finally  by  its  users,  common  as  an  old 
household  chair.  Great  hands,  great  feet;  big, 


The  Vale  of  Peace  191 

deep,  heavy-cut  features.  He  seemed  very  lonely 
as  he  came  down,  and  very  weary.  His  eye  was 
humid ;  his  skin  was  dry.  And  I  thought  once  that 
I  saw  his  long  upper  lip  tremble  with  weariness  or 
emotion. 

By  impulse,  I  went  forward  to  shake  his 
hand.  Celeste  was  there  before  me,  watching,  but 
not  offering  to  help  his  slow  movements.  For  Mr. 
Griswold,  to  the  last,  always  resented  being 
helped. 

He  stopped  a  moment  when  he  faced  me;  then 
held  out  his  great  hand. 

"  I  saw  you,  sir,"  he  said.  "  I  was  glad  when 
I  saw  you  once  again  in  the  house  of  God." 

I  pressed  his  hand;  but  his  thoughts  were  not 
on  me  for  long. 

"  How  did  he  impress  you,  sir — our  new  min- 
ister?" he  asked  me — with  too  much  eagerness, 
I  thought. 

I  said  what  I  could. 

And  as  I  spoke  I  felt  Celeste  Griswold  shrink 
back  toward  me.  I  turned  and  saw.  It  was  Mrs. 
Judd,  bringing  condolences  to  Mr.  Griswold  on 
his  retirement,  and  asking,  with  her  grin  of  sym- 
pathy, about  his  wife. 

"  I  heard  she  had  a  relapse,"  she  said.  "  And 
I  could  not  wait  longer  to  ask  for  her.  Oh,  how 
sad,  how  sad  that  she  could  not  be  here  to-day — 
this  day,  this  day  of  wonderful  peace  for  you  I  " 


192  The  Last  Christian 

Some  one  touched  me  on  the  shoulder.  It  was 
Mr.  Doty. 

"  Dr.  Spurdle's  over  here.  I  want  you  to  meet 
him,"  he  said,  and  led  me  away. 

"  This  is  the  young  man  I  was  talking  about," 
he  said  to  him — "  the  young  man  who  lost  his 
faith.  I  want  you  to  get  after  him  some  day  and 
show  him  what's  what.  I  want  you  to  fix  him 
up." 

Dr.  Spurdle  inclined  his  head  and  said  he  was 
always  glad  to  be  consulted  on  spiritual  matters. 
He  had  the  somewhat  languid  air  of  a  woman's 
oracle,  I  thought.  He  was  dressed  with  careful 
negligence.  He  wore  a  flowing  tie  and  patent- 
leather  shoes.  And  I  noticed  on  his  hand  the  seal 
ring  my  grandfather  disliked;  and  his  black,  curly 
hair  parted  in  the  middle. 

Mr.  Doty  had  his  hands  on  both  our  shoulders 
now,  cementing  our  new  union. 

a  I  want  you  two  to  get  together  and  talk  it 
out.  I  never  shall  be  satisfied  till  he  has  had  it 
out  with  you,  Calvin,"  he  said. 

It  was  rather  embarrassing  for  both  of  us.  Dr. 
Spurdle,  having  the  greater  control  of  manner, 
naturally  ended  it  first  by  breaking  away. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  him?  "  asked  Mr. 
Doty. 

I  said  I  was  very  glad  to  have  met  him. 

"  A  coming  man,"  said  Mr.  Doty — "  a  coming 


The  Vale  of  Peace  193 

man.    What  did  you  think  of  the  new  man  to- 
day— our  Mr.  Millett?" 

"  A  nice  man,"  I  said,  "  but " 


"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Doty;  "  but- 


"  Sort  of  scared — somehow,"  I  said. 

"  That's  it— scared,"  said  Mr.  Doty.  "  That's 
the  word.  If  you  ask  me,"  said  Mr.  Doty,  shak- 
ing his  head  thoughtfully,  "  this  can't  last — this 
can't  last.  Sooner  or  later  we'll  go  over  to  the 
Brick  Church.  Sooner  or  later  Spurdle  will  get 
us.  He's  a  coming  man." 

We  stood  at  the  doorway  of  the  White  Church. 
Ahead  of  us,  going  down  the  street,  Mrs.  Judd 
was  escorting  Mr.  Griswold  and  his  daughter  to 
their  door.  I  could  hear  the  undulating  pathos 
of  her  voice  as  she  sustained  and  carried  on  the 
conversation  through  the  silence  of  her  compan- 
ions. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  VAMPIRE 

ELANCHOLY,  isn't  it,  kind  of—"  I 
said. 

,The  doctor  and  I  sat  together  on  my 
side  porch.  Before  us  went  the  first  of  the  sparse 
black  file  of  Mr.  Griswold's  old  prayer  meeting 
flock  on  the  way  to  the  evening  meeting,  the  last 
service  of  the  day  of  ordination.  The  exercises 
of  the  day-time  had  exhausted  the  attention  and 
interest  of  the  great  majority  in  the  event.  Only 
the  little  handful  held  fast  for  the  intimate  gath- 
ering of  the  evening. 

"What?"  asked  the  doctor  absently. 

"That,"    I  said.      "The    old    church    going 
down." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  doctor  indifferently.    "  Melan- 
choly, but  not  unusual." 

"  No,  I  suppose  not,"  I  said,  and  glanced  over 
at  him  as  he  sat  looking  down  the  street,  the  athe- 
ist, the  spiritual  bogie-man  of  my  childhood — the 
man  who  had  lived  in  this  new,  material  Universe 
of  unbelief,  whose  border  I  had  just  crossed  from 
my  old  supernatural  Universe  of  belief,  all  his 
194 


The  Vampire  195 

life,  much  longer  than  I  could  remember.  How 
did  the  changes  that  I  thought  I  saw  appear  from 
his  standpoint?  Did  he  see,  as  I  believed  I  was 
seeing,  a  general  lapse  in  the  Christian  faith?  If 
so,  how  did  it  affect  him? 

"  It's  fading  everywhere,  isn't  it?  "  I  ventured. 

"What  is?"  asked  the  doctor,  looking  curi- 
ously at  me,  the  wrinkles  gathering  in  the  corners 
of  his  eyes — those  eyes  of  a  kindly  Mephistopheles, 
wise  with  half  a  century  of  the  knowledge  of  good 
and  evil. 

"  Religion,"  I  said;  "  the  vital  interest  in  Chris- 
tianity." 

"  Yes,  in  a  way,"  said  the  doctor  irrespon- 
sively.  He  seemed  to  be  watching  something  down 
the  street. 

But  then  he  turned  and  looked  at  me. 

"  Have  you  set  a  date  for  the  termination  of 
the  Christian  faith?"  he  inquired. 

"  Scarcely,"  I  said,  hardening  into  an  attitude 
of  mental  self-defense.  For  the  light  of  mocking 
was  kindled  in  his  eye  again.  "  Scarcely.  But  it 
is  changing.  Yes,  disintegrating — faster  than  it 
ever  did  before,  isn't  it?  It's  got  to  now,  hasn't 
it,  with  all  we  know — with  all  we  are  learning — 
faster  and  faster?  " 

I  stopped.  He  was  looking  at  me  with  keen 
amusement  in  his  eyes,  the  crow's-feet  of  laugh- 
ter gathered  in  their  corners. 


196  The  Last  Christian 

"  All  the  signs  of  disintegration  are  on  it  now," 
I  said  a  little  hotly.  "  You  can't  deny  that!  " 

"  Youth,  Calvin,  youth !  "  he  answered  me. 
"  New  worlds  for  breakfast  every  morning.  And 
all  the  planets  exploding  about  your  ears  every 
night.  One  date  only  for  all  events — now;  if  not 
to-day,  to-morrow  morning!  " 

I  kept  silence  before  his  mockery. 

"  My  son,"  he  said,  his  voice  changing,  "  you 
alarm  yourself  unnecessarily.  They  will  be  using 
Christian  rites  for  marriages  and  funerals  long 
after  this  New  England  weather  rubs  our  names 
off  our  tombstones." 

He  turned  his  eyes  away  from  me,  up  the  street 
again. 

"  What  do  you  think  religion  is,  with  the  aver- 
age man?  "  he  asked  me  over  his  shoulder.  "A 
passion  of  the  soul,  a  great  supernatural  emo- 
tion?" 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  I  said,  a  little  sulky 
from  his  raillery.  "  What  is  it?  " 

"  It's  a  social  habit  with  most  men,  my  boy, 
that's  all — handed  down  from  mother  to  son,  like 
table  manners.  It's  only  with  the  abnormal,  with 
the  cranks,  old  Griswold  or  yourself,"  he  said, — 
"  cranks,  and  women  sometimes — that  it  grips  the 
soul.  The  rest  of  us " 

He  spoke  more  and  more  absently.  Then  he 
stopped.  He  was  watching  some  one,  certainly. 


The  Vampire  197 

"  The  old  ghoul,"  he  said. 

"Who?"  I  asked. 

And  then  I  saw  a  familiar  figure  down  the 
street. 

"  She's  scented  death  again,"  said  the  Doctor. 

It  was  Mrs.  Judd. 

"  Watch  her,"  said  the  doctor.  "  She's  coming 
here." 

Sure  enough.  She  stopped  at  the  head  of  our 
walk,  wavered  like  a  hound  undecided  upon  his 
scent,  and  came  up  toward  us  at  last. 

"  I  knew  it,"  murmured  the  doctor,  rising. 
"  She  couldn't  help  it,  as  soon  as  she  saw  me 
here." 

"  Good  evening,  doctor,"  came  the  thin, 
lachrymose  voice.  "  Excuse  me  for  interrupting, 
won't  you  ?  But  I  could  not  go  by  without  asking 
you  how  poor  Mrs.  Griswold  is  getting  on.  Is  she 
as  low,  Doctor — oh,  is  she  as  low  as  they  say  she 
is?" 

"  Mrs.  Judd,"  said  the  doctor  very  solemnly, 
"  if  I  tell  you  the  exact  state  of  this  case,  can  I 
count  upon  your  aid?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  woman  eagerly. 

"  I  knew  I  could,"  the  doctor  answered  in  a 
tone  of  exaggerated  deference.  "  I  knew  I  could. 
She  is  a  sick  woman,  Mrs.  Judd." 

Mrs.  Judd  gave  a  little  gasp  of  pleasurable 
pity. 


198  The  Last  Christian 

"  Your  quick  sympathies  can  aid  her  greatly, 
Mrs.  Judd,"  said  the  doctor. 

"How,  how?"  asked  Mrs.  Judd,  eager  to 
serve. 

"  One  of  the  things  she  must  have  now  is  quiet," 
said  the  doctor.  "  I  must  forbid  her  being  seen 
by  any  one — even  you.  Will  you  tell  that,  Mrs. 
Judd,  to  the  neighbors — to  whoever  asks?" 

"  Certainly,  doctor,  certainly.  Oh,  isn't  it  ter- 
rible, Doctor?"  said  Mrs.  Judd. 

"  You'll  be  careful  to  remember  this,"  said  the 
doctor,  "  won't  you — because  it  is  so  very  neces- 
sary. Absolute  quiet  is  essential  now  to  keep  her 
living." 

"Oh,  yes — oh,  yes,  doctor;  you  know  I  will," 
said  Mrs.  Judd,  passing  on  to  prayer  meeting. 

"  To-morrow  morning  she'll  be  there,  just  the 
same,"  the  doctor  told  me. 

Mrs.  Judd's  figure  disappeared  into  the  en- 
trance of  the  church.  She  was  late.  The  singing 
began  at  once  in  the  vestry,  and  the  sound  of  old 
voices  in  prayer. 

"  Is  she  so  sick?  "  I  asked,  concerning  Celeste's 
mother. 

"  She  can't  last  long  now,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  I  didn't  know,"  I  said.  "  She's  been  that  way 
so  long." 

"  Not  much  longer,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Look,"  he  said,  with  a  change  of  voice. 


The  Vampire  199 

From  across  the  street  a  pink  figure  was  passing 
the  house  of  the  Griswolds. 

"  There's  another  one,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  I  didn't  know  she  went  there,"  I  said. 

Miss  Avery  was  at  the  Griswolds'  door. 

"  Only  when  old  Griswold  is  out.  Prayer  meet- 
ing nights  always,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Sickness 
is  their  opportunity,  naturally,"  added  the  doctor 
— speaking  of  the  "  women  who  smiled." 

"  Where  is  that  Mrs.  Thursby  now?  "  I  asked. 
We  had  reached  the  intermittent  stage  of  conver- 
sation of  a  still  summer's  night. 

"  Dead,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Haven't  you 
heard?" 

11  No,"  I  said. 

"  Cancer." 

"  No !  "  I  exclaimed. 

"  Oh,  yes.  Didn't  you  know  that?  "  asked  the 
Doctor.  "  That's  what  ailed  her  when  she  was 
here.  That's  what  got  her  into  it." 

Miss  Avery  came  from  the  door  again. 

"  Woman's  business,"  mused  the  doctor,  watch- 
ing her.  "  Strange  thing  to  watch,  isn't  it — the 
stir  among  the  women  just  before  the  passing  of 
another  life,  in  a  little  place  like  this?  " 

I  had  no  answer. 

"  I've  watched  them  years  and  years,  now. 
They  sense  it  far  ahead.  The  men  never — not  un- 
til it  happens.  Men — they  make  me  laugh,  with 


zoo  The  Last  Christian 

their  superior  airs.  Food-hunters,  that's  all! 
Two-thirds  of  life  is  in  the  women's  hands — all 
the  real  crises." 

We  sat  silent  again. 

"  '  From  women  we  come  forth;  to  women  we 
go  back  to  die.  At  each  gate  of  life  sits  a  woman 
waiting.'  Is  that  it — do  you  remember?  "  said  the 
doctor. 

"  I  don't  know  it,"  I  answered. 

"India,  I  think,"  said  the  doctor;  "not 
Greece." 

"  I  never  heard  it,"  I  said. 

The  prayer  meeting  was  over.  The  slow  black 
flock  filed  out  of  church  again,  Mrs.  Judd  among 
them.  She  approached  our  walk. 

"  She's  coming  in  again,"  said  the  doctor. 

She  turned  as  he  spoke — advanced  self-con- 
sciously, her  eyes  down,  till  she  reached  the  porch's 
side. 

"  Just  a  word,"  said  Mrs.  Judd — "  just  a  word, 
Doctor.  I  wanted  to  ask  you :  If  I  go  to  the  door, 
just  to  the  door,  to  call  on  Celeste  and  ask  for 
her  dear  mother — if  I  can  help  her,  it  can  do  no 
harm,  can  it?" 

"  Yes,  it  can,"  said  the  doctor  brusquely.  "  No 
calling  whatsoever  now." 

"Oh,  very  well,  very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Judd, 
somewhat  injured.  "  I  only  wanted  to  ask;  I  only 
wanted  to  do  my  duty. 


The  Vampire  201 

"  Just  one  thing  more,"  she  went  on,  moisten- 
ing her  lips.  "  Just  one  thing  more.  I  wanted  to 
ask  you  this.  If  they  had  been  able — if  they  had 
had  the  means  to  send  her  away  to  another  climate, 
as  they  hoped — would  it  have  been  different? 
Would  it  have  saved  her?  " 

The  street  light,  from  where  I  stood,  shone  for 
a  second  on  her  glassy  blue  eyes. 

"Probably,"  said  the  Doctor;  "if  she  had 
been  sent  in  time." 

"  Oh,  isn't  that  terrible — terrible !  "  wailed 
Mrs.  Judd.  "  Isn't  it  inscrutable?  Are  not  God's 
ways  inscrutable?  That  poor,  dear  woman,  the 
wife  of  God's  servant,  dying  here,  you  might  say, 
from  the  lack  of  means  to  live.  And  all  around 
us  so  many  unconsecrated  lives  saved.  Isn't  it 
past  finding  out — past  finding  out?  " 

She  went  away,  intoxicated  with  a  new  grief. 

"  She'll  be  there  to-morrow  morning,"  said  the 
doctor  again,  "  knocking  at  the  door.  She  can't 
keep  away.  She  must  handle  death  continually. 
Her  fingers  itch  for  it. 

"Damn  her!"  he  said  suddenly.  His  unac- 
customed heat  astonished  me.  "  What  can  you  do 
with  her?  You  can't  shoot  her.  Nothing  short 
of  that  will  keep  her  away.  You  talk  of  physical 
causes  for  disease.  Imagine  it:  put  yourself  in 
the  position — dying,  with  that  unclean  thing 
whining  every  morning  at  your  door,  waiting. 


2O2  The  Last  Christian 

She's  got  my  patient  in  such  a  state  now  that  just 
to  hear  her  voice  at  the  doorway  starts  up  a 
paroxysm  of  coughing." 

"And  nothing  to  be  done?"  I  asked. 

"  Nothing  that  we  can  do,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  Oh,  I  tell  you,  my  young  materialistic  friend,  the 
Christian  Scientists  have  got  you,  after  all.  Three- 
quarters  of  our  deaths  are  mental  murders " 

My  mind  returned  to  my  grandmother's  last 
days. 

" or  mental  suicides,"  the  doctor  was  say- 
ing. 

"  No,"  he  went  on;  "  you  and  I  can  do  nothing. 
The  defense  from  such  attacks  must  be  only  by  a 
woman — another  woman.  This  time  by  that  girl 
of  theirs — Celeste." 

His  eyes  looked  shrewdly  into  mine. 

"She  can  do  it,  I  think,"  he  said.  "Yes; 
she'll  do  it." 

He  stopped. 

"  At  each  gate — a  woman,"  he  repeated,  mus- 
ing. "  We  can  thank  God  for  it,  most  of  us — 
whatever  God  may  be — for  the  one  woman  that 
waits  for  us — at  last.  I've  seen  it  so  many,  many 
times." 

We  both  were  silent  again. 

"  What  a  thing  a  woman  is !  "  he  said,  at  last. 
"  What  a  vital  creature !  How  her  instincts  and 
emotions  reach  down  and  take  hold  on  life — on 


The  Vampire  203 

the  roots  of  it.  Take  that  girl  of  the  minister's. 
She's  worth  just  twenty  of  us — of  you  and  me. 
We  fuss,  and  speculate,  and  play  with  our  little 
shadows  of  life.  She's  a  living  creature.  All 
the  great  forces  of  the  race  live  through  her. 
Think  of  her.  She's  scarcely  more  than  a  young 
girl  to-day.  But  I've  been  watching  her  now  for 
ten  years,  fighting,  fighting,  fighting  for  the  pro- 
tection of  her  own  flesh  and  blood.  Nature — 
instinct;  that's  all.  But  yet,  we  don't  see,  very 
often,  a  specimen  like  that." 

He  started  to  go  away. 

"Yes,"  he  said;  "we  can't  interfere.  That's 
women's  business.  They'll  have  to  fight  it  out 
between  themselves." 

"  An  awful  thing,"  I  said,  thinking  of  all  he 
had  said  to  me — of  Celeste. 

"What?"  he  asked. 

"  The  women,"  I  said.  "  All  this  silent  strug- 
gle for  life  here.  A  strange  thing  to  see  as  it 
really  is." 

"Strange?"  said  the  doctor,  leaving.  "Non- 
sense. A  rule  of  life — universal.  You  look  out 
of  your  window  now,  and  see  the  women  fighting 
for  their  wounded  and  their  dying  and  their  dead, 
exactly  like  the  women  of  the  Iliad — exactly:  there 
in  the  warfare  of  barbarians;  and  here — in  this 
dead  place  here — against  the  slow,  septic  poison- 
ing of  dry-rot." 


204  The  Last  Christian 

I  walked  with  him  when  he  went  down  the 
street,  and  left  him  for  a  longer  walk.  As  I 
came  back  I  saw  again  the  light  in  Celeste's  room 
in  the  Griswold  house.  All  the  rest  was  dark. 
How  many  times,  it  came  to  me,  had  I  seen  that 
one  light  watching  from  that  dark  house ! 

For  several  days,  then,  I  saw  the  women  going 
back  and  forth  from  the  house  of  the  Griswolds — 
with  flowers,  with  covered  dishes.  Mrs.  Judd  was 
there — exactly  as  the  doctor  said — the  earliest 
possible  moment  the  next  morning.  Twice  a  day, 
for  two  days,  she  went  and  came — making  very 
short  stops.  On  the  morning  of  the  third  day 
she  made  a  little  longer  one.  When  she  came 
back  her  face  was  very  red;  she  seemed  to  be 
talking  to  herself. 

That  was  Thursday.  I  remember,  because  the 
windows  in  the  vestry  of  the  White  Church  were 
lighted  again  that  night  for  the  weekly  prayer 
meeting — because  it  was  that  night  that  I  saw 
Celeste  Griswold  again. 

I  was  coming  through  the  yard  that  evening. 
I  had  been  taking  a  look  at  the  small  experiment 
in  my  makeshift  laboratory.  The  evening  service 
was  under  way.  I  could  hear  them  singing.  I 
looked  up,  and  there  was  a  white  figure  before 
me.  I  saw  that  it  was  Celeste  Griswold.  She 
had  come,  apparently,  by  the  old  back  path  be- 
hind the  church  which  we  had  used  as  children. 


The  Vampire  205 

She  startled  me  a  little  when  I  saw  her — she 
seemed  so  pale.  Her  face  was  that  dead  white 
of  a  frozen  person's. 

"  Calvin,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  aspirate  whisper. 
"  Calvin !  " 

"  Yes,  Celeste,"  I  said,  hurrying  to  her.  I 
thought  there  was  probably  some  crisis  in  her 
mother's  sickness. 

She  stood  straight  and  still.  Only  her  lack  of 
color  and  her  wide  eyes  showed  emotion. 

"Tell  me,  is  she  going  to  die?"  she  asked — 
"my  mother? 

"  Don't,"  she  said,  when  I  started  to  avoid  her. 
"  I've  come  to  you  to  get  the  truth.  I  always 
have." 

Eventually  I  told  her.  It  had  less  effect  upon 
her  than  I  had  thought.  She  remained  exactly  as 
she  seemed  at  first — numb,  as  if  gripped  with  cold. 

"  One  thing  more,"  she  said  evenly.  "  If  she 
had  gone  away,  if  we  had  had  the  money  to  send 
her  when  we  wanted  to  so  much,  would  she  have 
lived?" 

We  stood  beside  the  White  Church — just  back 
of  the  light  from  the  last  window  of  the  vestry. 
A  prayer  was  beginning,  in  the  rapt  voice  of  the 
bearded  man  who  prayed.  His  strained  accents 
came  out  the  open  windows  to  us. 

"  Oh,  God,  we  thank  thee — "  he  began. 

I  tried  not  to  answer  her.     "  I  don't  know — " 


206  The  Last  Christian 

I  began.  But  I  saw  that  it  did  not  satisfy  her;  I 
could  not  make  my  voice  convincing.  "  Yes,"  I 
had  to  say  at  last. 

She  stood  silent  for  the  moment.  The  voice 
of  the  bearded  prayer-maker  came  through  the 
silence. 

"And,  oh,  God,  we  rejoice,"  he  was  saying, 
«  in  ali » 

"  It  was  true,"  Celeste  Griswold  said  absently, 
"  just  as  she  told  me — just  as  she  said." 

"Who?  "I  asked  her. 

"  That  woman — that  awful  Judd  woman — 
that  vampire !  "  said  Celeste  Griswold  sharply. 
"  She  will  not  come  back,"  she  added  curtly,  her 
mouth  set. 

The  man  who  prayed  had  passed  to  the 
regulation  second  phase  of  his  rhapsody,  his 
thanksgiving  for  mercy:  "renewed,  renewed, 
continually  renewed,"  his  voice  came  swelling 
out. 

Suddenly  Celeste  Griswold  broke  down,  shaken 
with  weeping.  I  had  never  seen  her  break  be- 
fore, uncontrollably,  like  this.  Then,  just  as  sud- 
denly, she  stopped.  The  prayer  in  the  church 
was  done.  The  services  seemed  to  be  over.  The 
place  was  silent. 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  she  said,  her  hands 
clenched.  "  I  don't  believe  it.  My  mother — my 
poor,  gentle  mother!" 


The  Vampire  207 

They  were  leaving  the  church  now.  I  could 
see  them  in  the  street,  walking  under  the 
lights. 

"  Think  of  her  life !  Poverty,  and  deprivation, 
and  sickness — year  after  year,  always.  But  al- 
ways cheerful — always  kind.  It  was  her  form  of 
serving  God.  Just  as  high,  just  as  true,  as  my 
father's;  just  exactly." 

There  was  nothing  I  could  say  to  her. 

"And  now,  because  of  it — because,  when  she 
could  have  been  saved  to  me — if  they  had  paid  us 
what  they  should " 

She  stopped;  her  eyes  dilated.  I  could  see 
them,  even  in  that  half-light. 

"  Do  you  know  what  that  would  mean?  "  she 
asked  fiercely.  "  Do  you  understand?  It  is  the 
White  Church — the  service  of  God — God  himself 
—that  would  kill  her!" 

It  was  suddenly  darker;  the  lights  had  gone  out 
in  the  church  vestry. 

"  In  torture,  in  agony — in  those  awful  fits  of 
coughing.  Oh,  if  you  saw  her!  " 

She  stopped  again,   then  went  on: 

"  No,  no !  I  don't  believe  it — I  don't  believe 
it.  I  don't  believe  there  is  a  God  who  would  do 
such  a  thing.  It  won't  happen ;  it  can't !  But — " 
she  stopped — "  if  it  does,"  she  went  on,  "  if  it  does 
— I  couldn't  believe  there  was  a  God,  that's  all. 
I  couldn't.  Never — never  again." 


208  The  Last  Christian 

She  spoke  crisply,  evenly,  her  voice  as  expres- 
sionless as  a  voice  in  a  dream. 

"  Celeste,"  I  said,  after  a  silence.  I  took  her 
listless  hand.  "  Think — isn't  there  anything  I 
can  do?  Can't  you  let  me  do  something  to  help 
her — to  help  you?  " 

"What  can  you  do — now?"  she  asked  dully. 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  said  impotently,  and  was 
still. 

"  Listen,  Celeste,  please,"  I  said  at  last,  for 
she  was  very  clearly  not  thinking  of  me,  or  of 
what  I  said.  "  If  you  ever  need  me — if  I  can  ever 
help  you,  you  will  call  me — wherever  I  may  be." 

"  If  I  ever  need  you,"  repeated  Celeste  ab- 
sently, and  stopped. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  went  on,  her  speech  quickening 
a  little.  "  I  should  do  that  anyway." 

I  don't  think  she  knew  what  she  was  saying. 
She  was  entirely  preoccupied  with  her  grief  and 
rebellion. 

We  stood  silent  for  a  very  little  time.  Then, 
back  of  us,  from  the  Griswolds'  house  there  came 
a  voice  calling:  "  Celestia,  Celestia." 

"  My  father,"  said  Celeste,  loosening  her  hand 
from  mine. 

"  Celestia,  Celestia,"  came  the  old  voice  again. 

"  I  won't  believe  it,"  said  Celeste  Griswold 
hurriedly.  "There  is  a  God — there  is  a  God! 
He  will  not  let  that  happen  to  my  mother." 


The  Vampire  209 

"  Celestia,  Celestia,"  came  the  old  voice  a 
third  time. 

"  Yes,   father,"  she  called  back.     "  Coming." 

Her  voice  was  perfectly  sure  again — loud 
enough  so  that  it  seemed  he  should  have  heard  it. 
But  still  he  called  for  her  again:  "  Celestia,  Ce- 
lestia." 

It  was  like  the  voice  of  the  past  calling  her 
away  from  me. 

Once  more  I  saw  her — and  only  once — before  I 
left:  in  a  formal  call  upon  her  and  her  father. 
Early  the  next  week  I  was  on  my  way  to  Ger- 
many. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THIS  Is  NONE  OTHER  BUT  THE  HOUSE  OF  GOD. 

THE  next  year,  that  one  year  of  mine  in 
Germany,  was  a  busy  one,  perhaps  the 
busiest  and  most  interesting  of  my  life. 
It  was  not  only  that  I  was  occupied  in  work  which 
held  fast  my  attention.  More  than  that,  much, 
it  was  the  transition,  the  being  born  again  into 
that  new  universe  of  modern  science;  a  place  of 
new  landmarks,  and  new  perspectives,  inhabited 
by  men  who  could  scarcely  think  of  the  Universe 
of  my  childhood,  the  teaching  of  the  White 
Church  as  something  still  extant  upon  the  earth. 

And  yet,  though  I  myself  was  rapidly  becoming 
acclimated  to  the  new  environment,  never  have  I 
been  under  stronger  or  happier  emotion  than 
when  I  was  returning  once  again  that  next  sum- 
mer to  the  old  Street ;  when  the  rattling,  decrepit, 
branch  train  jerked  its  cars  around  the  tortuous 
curves,  and  I  saw  rising  in  the  distance  the  dim, 
old-blue  mountains  I  had  fished  through,  when  I 
was  a  boy. 

There  was  one  curve,  just  before  we  arrived, 
as  the  top  of  the  grade  was  passed,  when  you 


LThis  Is  None  Other  but  the  House  of  God    211 

could  look  across,  and  see  the  spire  of  the  White 
Church  surmounting  the  elm  trees.  There,  I 
remembered,  was  where,  coming  back,  I  had  al- 
ways had  the  first  sense  of  home.  I  stepped 
across  the  half-empty  car  and  looked.  I  could 
not  see  the  spire.  I  looked  again — in  vain. 
Then  the  train  rattled  on,  and  the  viewpoint  was 
gone. 

It  was  a  dark  day.  Very  likely,  I  thought,  the 
spire  showed  less  brightly  than  on  the  sunny  one, 
and  so  I  had  missed  catching  it.  But  when  I 
came  into  the  Street  again,  and  the  trolley  stopped 
before  it,  I  saw  that,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the 
White  Church  was  gone,  and  gone  forever.  They 
had  painted  it  brown — a  dirty  brown. 

I  had,  I  remember,  a  feeling  of  sinking  and 
regret — the  feeling  that  you  have  when  something 
in  your  past  life  is  irrevocably  gone;  the  main 
underlying  sentiment,  I  think,  at  the  time  of  loss 
by  death.  But  here  was  a  death,  not  of  an  in- 
dividual, but  a  generation,  a  race  of  men  and 
women. 

I  stopped,  and  gazed  at  the  little  box  of  a 
brown  church;  tried  to  call  back  again  the  great 
White  Church  of  my  childhood;  the  high  pillars, 
where  overhead  the  pigeons  cooed  and  chuckled 
somewhere  out  of  sight;  the  House  of  God.  Then 
beside  the  main  entrance  my  eye  fell  upon  the 
announcement : 


212  The  Last  Christian 

"  Tonight.    Holy  Ghost  Night !     Come !  " 

I  gazed,  wide-eyed,  at  the  neatly  stenciled  let- 
ters; read,  and  read  again,  and  still  was  reading, 
when  behind  me,  I  finally  realized  that  a  gen- 
tle voice  was  speaking: 

"  Why !  How  do  you  do  ?  How  do  you  do  ?  " 
said  the  voice,  in  a  somewhat  guttural  tone. 
"  This  is  indeed  a  pleasure,  Mr.  Morgan.  Back, 
I  see,  from  your  researches  abroad." 

It  was  Mr.  Millett,  the  young  minister,  dis- 
closing to  the  full  his  quick,  frightened  smile. 

"  I  see  you  are  looking  at  the  old  church,"  he 
said.  "  Do  you  think  it  improved  by  the  change  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  said.    "  I  do  not." 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Millett,  "  personally  I  should 
have  preferred  the  white.  But  it  seemed  to  be 
the  feeling  with  many  that  brown  would  be  bet- 
ter. It  is  more  durable;  more  wearable,  so  to 
say."  And  he  smiled  again  his  fleeting,  apologetic 
smile. 

"  Pardon  me.  I  must  go  now,"  he  said.  He 
was  always  begging  your  pardon;  always  in 
transit. 

"  What  is  that?  "  I  asked,  pointing  to  the  sign 
above  the  door. 

"  That — oh,  that  is  our  revival  service — the 
notice  of  it,  I  had  intended  to  say,"  said  Mr.  Mil- 
lett. "  You  see,"  he  went  on,  explaining  again, 
"we  have  felt  we  needed  a  spiritual  awakening 


This  Is  None  Other  but  the  House  of  God   213 

here.  The  interest  was  not  quite  what  we  de- 
sired. 

"  Pardon  me.  I  must  be  going,"  he  said  sud- 
denly again.  "  I  must  be  going  in  to  prepare  for 
it.  This  is  the  last  evening.  I  hope — I  wish  we 
might  see  you  there,"  he  added  doubtfully. 

He  passed  along,  with  quick  light  steps;  his 
long  coat  fluttered  into  the  back  entrance  of  the 
church. 

I  turned  toward  my  own  house,  and  there,  of 
course,  across  the  lawn,  sat  Mr.  Tubbs,  the  or- 
ganist, upon  his  porch.  I  had  hoped  to  escape 
him.  But  it  was  impossible.  He  sat  like  fate,  a 
village  deity,  regarding  the  comings  and  goings  of 
the  Street.  Life  and  death  passed  before  him; 
and  all  new-comers  were  his  by  right  of  prior 
discovery. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Mr.  Tubbs,  "  here  you  are 
again.  Back  from  Dutchland.  Well,  well,  how 
is  the  Kaiser — huh?" 

"  Hello,"  I  said.  "How  are  you?  I  see  you've 
been  out  painting  up  the  church." 

"  Pretty  good  job,  too,"  said  Mr.  Tubbs. 
"Looks  pretty  nifty,  don't  it?  Everybody  got 
awful  tired  of  that  old  white.  It  dirtied  up  so, 
too.  It  looks  rich  for  a  change,  that  brown, 
don't  it? 

"  Coming  to  the  revival  tonight?  "  he  went  on, 
when  I  didn't  answer.  "  This  is  your  last  chance, 


214  The  Last  Christian 

if  you're  going  to  be  saved — if  you're  going  to 
get  your  button." 

I  looked  over  and  saw  that  new  order  that  he 
wore,  next  to  the  Odd-Fellows'  links  upon  his 
lapel — that  unspeakable  button,  white,  with  a 
blue  inscription :  "  Advertise  Jesus." 

"  They're  giving  them  away  to  all  the  church 
members — new  ones,  and  old  ones,  too,"  said  Mr. 
Tubbs. 

"Great  doings,  great  doings,"  proceeded  Mr. 
Tubbs — "  lively  times.  They've  had  me  most 
dead.  They  would  have,  if  they  hadn't  brought 
their  own  trombonist  with  them.  Pentecost 
Brown — you've  heard  of  him,"  said  Mr.  Tubbs, 
looking  up.  "  A  good  one,  too." 

"Who's  the  evangelist?"  I  asked. 

"  Sam  Shipes — the  Gospel  Tornado — you've 
heard  of  him;  you  see  him  in  the  newspapers. 
We  wouldn't  have  got  him  only  by  a  piece  of 
luck." 

"How's  that?"  I  asked. 

"  Doty  got  him.  He  met  him  somewhere  on 
the  train  when  he  was  traveling,  and  they  got 
well  acquainted.  So  Doty  got  him  to  come  up 
here.  It  isn't  what  they're  used  to — a  little  church 
like  this  one.  It's  kind  of  a  vacation  for  them. 

"  A  smart  fellow,  that  Shipes — you  ought  to 
hear  him,"  went  on  Mr.  Tubbs.  "  They  say  he 
makes  good  money  out  of  it.  And  there's  some  of 


This  Is  None  Other  but  the  House  of  God    215 

them  that  criticises  him  for  it.  But  I  don't  see  it. 
That's  his  business,  ain't  it,  just  the  same  as  any- 
body else's?  Let  him  have  it,  I  say,  if  he  makes  it 
honest.  And  I  don't  know  any  honester  way  than 
saving  souls.  A  smart  feller;  a  smart  feller," 
said  Mr.  Tubbs.  "  He  stirs  'em  up !  " 

"  How  does  Mr.  Griswold  like  it?  "  I  asked. 

"  Like  it,"  said  Mr.  Tubbs,  "  the  old  crank. 
He  don't  like  anything  up-to-date.  That's  what's 
the  matter  with  our  churches,"  added  Mr.  Tubbs, 
becoming  didactic — "  these  old  timers  like  him 
hanging  on." 

"He  fought  it,  eh?"  I  said. 

"  Yes.  But  they  brought  him  around  finally," 
said  Mr.  Tubbs.  "  Doty  brought  him  around. 
He  went  right  to  him,  and  told  him  he'd  have  to 
agree  to  it,  if  they  were  going  to  save  the  church. 
He  told  him  straight  that  if  he  didn't,  it'd  be 
his  own  responsibility." 

"  Say,  you  ought  to  see  the  old  codger,"  he 
went  on.  "  He's  changed  a  lot  since  last  year — 
got  kind  of  sour  and  disagreeable.  I  tell  'em  he's 
a  little  off.  About  Sundays — about  Sundays  in 
particular.  Why,  just  last  Sunday  afternoon  our 
baseball  nine  were  playing  against  North  Palmer 
over  here  in  Hathaway's  lot.  And  what  do  you 
think!  Who  comes  over  but  old  man  Griswold, 
shaking  his  cane,  and  trying  to  break  up  the 
game — right  after  the  third  inning." 


2i6  The  Last  Christian 

"Did  he,  though?"  I  exclaimed. 

"  Yes.  He's  stalking  around  like  that  all  the 
time  now — every  Sunday.  You'd  think,  the  way 
he  acts,  he  thought  he  was  the  last  Christian  on 
earth,"  said  Mr.  Tubbs  warmly. 

"  They  didn't  use  to  play  ball  here  much  Sun- 
days in  the  old  days,"  I  suggested. 

"  No,  but  we've  got  out  of  that  generation  now. 
Times  are  different,"  said  Mr.  Tubbs. 

"  No — the  old  man's  crazy  in  my  opinion,"  he 
added.  "  And  getting  crazier  every  day." 

"  They're  still  having  a  hard  time  with  the 
church,  are  they?"  I  asked. 

"You're  right.  They  are,"  said  Mr.  Tubbs, 
settling  himself  back  again  into  his  rocker. 
"  Yep,  the  old  church  is  pretty  hard  up,"  he  said 
reflectively.  "  I  don't  see  how  they'll  pull  it  out, 
if  this  revival  don't  work  out  something." 

I  passed  along  home. 

"  They've  tried  most  everything  else,"  he  was 
saying.  "  This  little  minister's  been  a  great  one 
for  that — sociables,  and  Browning  readings,  and 
Boy  Campers.  He  had  a  Man's  Forward  move- 
ment for  a  while,  and  that  didn't  work 
either." 

I  was  getting  out  of  ear  shot  cross  the  lawn. 

"  Well,  good-by,"  said  Mr.  Tubbs,  interrupt- 
ing himself.  "  You  want  to  be  there  tonight.  It's 
your  last  night." 


This  Is  None  Other  but  the  House  of  God    217 

I  was  there,  one  of  the  first.  By  habit,  I  got 
again  into  our  old  pew. 

The  ministers  came  from  the  platform,  one  after 
another.  Sam  Shipes  was  on  hand  early — an  ac- 
tive, confident,  wiry  man,  with  the  smooth  shaven, 
deep-marked  face  of  a  vaudeville  actor.  He  wore 
a  blue  serge  suit,  patent  leather  shoes,  and  a  blue 
bow  tie,  with  white  polka  dots.  A  handkerchief 
with  a  blue  border  showed  from  his  upper  coat 
pocket.  There  was  a  diamond  ring  upon  his 
hand. 

Pentecost  Brown,  the  trombonist,  was  also  early 
— a  small  figure,  with  a  peculiar,  mouse-like  ap- 
pearance, that  side  whiskers  would  give  to  a  little 
small-featured  man. 

Mr.  Millett  came  next,  giving  his  quick,  apolo- 
getic smile  to  the  evangelist  and  to  several  in  the 
audience.  And  last  of  all,  Mr.  Griswold  tramped 
heavily  up  the  old  steps,  bowed  gravely  to  the 
men  upon  the  platform,  and  sat  down.  Celeste 
Griswold,  who  had  come  with  him  to  the  step, 
went  back  to  her  old  pew. 

There  was  an  obvious  reluctance,  it  seemed  to 
me,  a  heavy  weight  upon  the  old  man's  move- 
ments, in  his  attitude,  as  he  sat  there,  eyes  down. 
I  said  to  myself,  I  remember,  that  it  was  my  imagi- 
nation. But  very  soon,  I  learned  that  there  were 
others  who  saw  the  same  thing  that  I  did. 

The  church  filled  up  quite  well.    It  was  Satur- 


2i8  The  Last  Christian 

day  night — the  last  night  of  the  services.  In  front 
of  me  were  four  young  girls — from  the  Village, 
I  think.  At  any  rate,  I  did  not  know  them.  I 
could  hear  their  whisperings  quite  clearly. 

"Isn't  he  funny?"  said  the  pretty  one  of  the 
party. 

"Who?" 

"  That  old  man,"  she  said.  "  What's  he  mad 
about  anyhow?  Gee,  don't  he  look  like  a  thunder 
cloud?" 

"  S-sh,"  said  the  proper  one  of  the  party — 
the  thin  one  with  glasses. 

"  Say,  girls,  look  at  his  upper  lip.  Did  you  ever 
see  such  a  long  lip  in  your  life?  "  said  the  pret- 
tiest girl. 

.They  giggled. 

"  Oh,  Min,  you  are  the  worst,"  said  one. 

"  Honestly,"  said  the  wit.  "  Did  you  see  it  a 
little  while  ago?  It  kind  of  wiggled.  Honestly, 
I  mean  it." 

"  S-sh,"  said  the  proper  one  again.  "  Don't  you 
know  where  you  are?  " 

So  after  a  little  while  they  stopped  giggling, 
and  patted  the  backs  of  their  necks,  and  were  still 
again. 

I  noticed  then  that  what  they  said  was  true. 

The  old  man's  lip  did  seem  to  tremble  a  little 
occasionally — from  weakness,  I  suppose.  His 
hands  shook  somewhat,  I  saw,  when  he  took  them 


This  Is  None  Other  but  the  House  of  God    219 

from  where  they  rested  on  the  arms  of  the  old 
pulpit  chair.  He  did  look  pretty  melancholy — 
yes,  and  crabbed,  I  suppose,  to  the  other  people. 

I  glanced  over  to  where  Celeste  Griswold  sat. 
I  could  see  that  affairs  had  gone  no  better  with 
either  of  them.  Her  mother  had  died  during  the 
year.  She  was  still  in  black,  which  made  her  whiter 
than  she  would  have  been  in  some  other  color. 

But  now  the  service  had  begun.  Pentecost 
Brown  was  sounding  his  trombone  and  we  were 
rising  to  sing  the  hymn  which  had  been,  as  I 
learned  later,  the  keynote  of  the  success  of  the 
week: 

"  Roll  us,  roll  us,  Savior,  to  the  Gloryland  above ; 
Wash  us,  wash  us,  Jesus,  with  the  cleansing  of  Thy  love." 

Mr.  Griswold,  I  noticed,  did  not  sing — as  he 
quite  often  used  to.  He  stood  up,  his  hymn  book 
open  in  his  big  palm,  staring  rather  absently  at  it. 
His  clothing  was  more  shiny  than  it  ever  was,  I 
thought.  His  hair  was  a  little  long  and  unkempt. 

They  prayed,  and  sang  again;  and  then,  in  a 
very  crisp  and  business-like  manner,  Sam  Shipes, 
the  Evangelist,  began  getting  under  way — starting 
slowly,  working  up  in  the  friendly,  breezy,  ver- 
nacular of  the  Middle  West: 

"  Folks,  when  I  was  a  boy  in  Michigan — way 
out  on  the  farm  in  Michigan — my  good  old 
mother  used  to  say  to  me: 


220  The  Last  Christian 

"  '  Sammy,  you'll  never  get  right  with  your 
Savior,  till  you  get  straight  down  on  your  marrow- 
bones, and  pray  till  He  sends  you  down  the  Holy 
Ghost.  And  you've  got  to  get  at  it  pretty  quick — 
or  you  know  who'll  get  you.' 

"  You  bet  I  knew  before  she  told  me.  But 
Mother  told  me  just  the  same, '  For  the  old  devil's 
watching  you,  Sammy.  He's  on  your  track.  The 
sooner  you  get  right,  the  safer  it  will  be  for  you.'  " 

The  restless  girls  in  front  of  me  gave  little 
appreciative  giggles.  Mr.  Griswold,  I  thought, 
moved  slightly  in  his  chair. 

"  It's  that  old  devil,"  called  Mr.  Shipes,  warm- 
ing, "  that  same  old  devil,  sitting  out  there,  wait- 
ing, waiting,  to  grab  you  up.  That's  the  same  old 
devil  who's  been  sitting  outside  there,  for  six 
thousand  years,  waiting  for  us  all.  That  same  old 
bunco  steerer,  that  got  talking  to  our  grand- 
mother, Miss  Eve,  before  she  took  out  her  mar- 
riage certificate,  and  became  Mrs.  Adam. 

"  Now  there  are  some  people,"  said  Mr.  Shipes, 
"  will  tell  you  there  ain't  any  such  thing  as  a  per- 
sonal devil;  but  I  for  one  ain't  ashamed  to  say 
that  I  believe  in  him.  Well,  no,  I  don't  believe 
in  him.  I  know  he's  there!  " 

He  was  off  now  upon  the  personal  devil,  for 
several  minutes.  My  mind  wandered  a  little,  in 
spite  of  his  fierce  and  vivid  rhetoric.  My  eyes 
came  back  quite  often  to  the  figure  of  Mr.  Gris- 


This  Is  None  Other  but  the  House  of  God    221 

wold — his  hands  fixed  upon  the  arms  of  the  pulpit 
chair,  his  head  down,  his  eyes  entirely  hidden  by 
his  shaggy  eyebrows. 

Above  him,  I  read  again,  as  I  had  a  thousand 
times  before,  the  semicircular  old  gilt  motto  in 
its  Gothic  letters : 

ftbfs  is  mone  ©tber  but  tbe  Ibouse  of  <5oO 

The  gilt  was  pretty  dull  now;  the  long  tail  of  a 
water  stain  hung  down  to  it  from  the  ceiling. 

The  speaker  gradually  worked  up  to  the  sub- 
ject of  the  evening.  He  was  now  expatiating  upon 
the  Holy  Ghost.  I  saw  Mr.  Griswold  change  his 
position — shift  his  heavy  feet,  apparently  steadying 
himself  as  the  man  started. 

"  Now  there's  lots  of  people,  nowadays,"  said 
Mr.  Shipes,  "  seem  to  think  there  ain't  any  such 
thing  as  the  Holy  Ghost  any  longer.  They  think 
it's  out  of  date.  They'll  come  right  out  and  tell 
you  so — or  they  might  as  well." 

I  saw  Mr.  Griswold  lean  forward  tense,  grip- 
ping the  arms  of  his  chair,  waiting. 

"  But  I  tell  you,  folks,  they're  wrong.  They're 
wrong,"  shouted  Sam  Shipes,  pacing  back  and 
forth  upon  the  platform.  "  And  my  good  old 
friend  here,  Mr.  Griswold,  will  tell  you  the  same 
thing." 

The  old  man  looked  up  quickly.  Then  his 
figure  relaxed  back  into  the  chair. 


222  The  Last  Christian 

"Now,  folks,  let's  get  together,"  said  the 
Evangelist;  "  let's  try  to  think  it  out.  Let's  see  it 
just  the  way  it  happened. 

"  Here  was  our  Savior  crucified,  hanging  on 
the  cross." 

He  backed  up  against  the  rear  wall  of  the  plat- 
form, his  arms  extended.  Mr.  Shipes  crucified 
— crucified  in  a  blue  serge  suit  and  a  polka  dot  tie 
and  a  diamond  upon  his  left  hand. 

"Crucified,  suffering!"  he  whispered. 

His  eyes  turned  up,  his  head  lopped  down. 

I  saw  Mr.  Griswold  lean  forward,  tense,  grip- 
ping his  chair  arms  again. 

And  still  the  Gospel  Tornado  kept  on — passed 
to  his  illustrations  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 

"  Now  after  he  got  over  with  that — after  he'd 
gone  through  with  it;  gone  up,  up  there,  back  to 
glory — who  was  it  came  to  take  His  place  on 
earth  with  us  poor  miserable,  insignificant  sin- 
ners? Who  was  it?  Who  was  it?  The  Holy 
Ghost,"  yelled  Mr.  Shipes.  "The  Holy  Ghost 
— that's  who  it  was !  " 

"  They  say  to  me:  What  do  you  mean.  Holy 
Ghost?  What  do  you  mean?  What  is  it?  I  tell 
you,  folks,  it's  fire,  it's  water,  it's  blood,  it's  life 
— it's  the  glory  hallelujah  of  the  sanctified  soul! 
I  tell  you,  folks,  you've  got  to  get  it — you've  got 
to  get  it,  or  go  yellin'  down  to  your  damnation." 

The    veins    stood    out    on    Mr.    Griswold's 


This  Is  None  Other  but  the  House  of  God    223 

yellow  forehead.  I  could  see  them  from  where  I 
stood. 

"Now  look,  now  look,  then,  folks;  look,  and 
watch  me  close  while  I  say  it.  For  this  thirty  sec- 
onds may  mean  more  to  you  than  any  time  in  all 
your  life.  It  may  mean  to  you  an  eternity  of  joy 
and  bliss — or  everlasting  years  of  squirming  in 
Hell  fire." 

The  evangelist  talked  louder  and  faster. 

"  You've  got  to  get  it,  folks;  you've  got  to  have 
it.  You've  got  to  have  it  to  be  saved !  It's  got  to 
come  and  strike  you  blind,  like  it  did  old  Paul  on 
his  way  down  to  Damascus. 

He  jumped  into  the  air  at  that,  with  a  sudden 
yell. 

"  Oh,  smite  us,  Lord;  smite  us  with  the  Spirit 
here  tonight!  "  he  called. 

Results  were  coming.  I  heard  the  bearded  man 
who  prayed  calling,  very  softly  at  first,  Hallelujah 
from  the  audience.  The  old  gaunt  woman,  who 
peered  into  the  Hereafter,  sat,  happy  tears 
streaming  down  her  cheeks. 

"Shoot  us,  shoot  us!"  yelled  Sam  Shipes. 
"  Shoot  us  dead,  God,  with  your  Holy  Ghost  to- 
night!" 

I  saw  it  just  before  it  came.  Mr.  Griswold  was 
half  up  on  his  feet — his  finger  pointing. 

"Now,  this  won't  do!  This — this  is  blas- 
phemy," he  said.  "  This " 


224  The  Last  Christian 

Then  suddenly  he  collapsed  back  again  into  the 
big  chair. 

Fortunately  his  voice  was  not  so  loud  as  it 
once  was.  What  he  said  was  not  very  plain.  I 
don't  know  that  I  myself  could  have  understood  it 
if  I  had  not  had  my  attention  at  the  time  upon 
him. 

His  daughter  was  on  her  feet.  I  was  myself. 
She  glanced  a  fraction  of  a  second  at  me.  It  was 
the  first  time  our  eyes  had  met.  I  went  up  to  the 
platform  after  her. 

The  speaker  fortunately  was  at  the  height  of 
his  effort,  shouting.  He  did  not  notice  the  inter- 
ruption, or  didn't  care  to  notice  it.  He  went  on 
with  his  wild  apostrophe  to  the  Holy  Ghost.  Ce- 
leste Griswold  and  I  helped  the  old  man  down  the 
stairs — out  of  the  side  aisle.  There  was  much 
less  disturbance  than  might  have  been  expected. 
Mr.  Millett  indeed  came  across  the  platform,  and 
started  to  help  us.  But  Celeste  refused  his  aid. 

"  It's  nothing,"  she  said.  "  Nothing  but  what 
we  can  manage,"  she  said.  "  Is  it,  father?  " 

"  No,"  the  old  man  said  thickly. 

"  A  little  dizziness,  that's  all.  He  has  it  occa- 
sionally," said  Celeste.  "  .That's  all.  And  if 
anyone  asks  please  tell  them  so." 

The  old  man  was  pretty  heavy — one  side  par- 
ticularly, the  right  side,  which  was  toward  me.  It 
seemed  to  me  to  drag  a  little,  but  he  kept  trying 


This  Is  None  Other  but  the  House  of  God    225 

to  walk  alone — to  be  free,  especially  from  the 
aid  of  Celeste  upon  his  other  arm. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to,  Celestia,  don't.  You're 
tiring  yourself  again.  I  can  get  along,"  he  was 
saying. 

So  she  supported  him  more  lightly. 

"  You  see,  my  daughter,"  he  kept  saying  to  me. 
"  You  see,  this  girl  is  all  the  time  doing  more  than 
she  should  for  me.  I  try  not  to  be  a  care  to  her, 
sir,"  he  said.  "  I  do  try " 

"  Father — please •"  Celeste  was  trying  to  in- 
terrupt him.  But  without  success. 

"  I  do  try,"  he  went  on,  a  little  peevishly.  "  But 
she  will  over-exert  herself  for  me.  I  don't  like  it. 
I  will  not  be  a  drag,  a  tax  on  anybody.  But  I'm 

afraid;  I'm  afraid  all  the  time "  He  was  a 

little  out  of  his  self-control,  I  saw.  He  didn't 
know  what  he  was  saying.  He  shivered  a  little 
and  stopped. 

We  walked  on  in  slow  silence.  From  out  the 
windows  of  the  church  came  the  height  of  the 
Evangelist's  calling. 

"  Oh,  shoot — shoot — shoot  'em  dead!  "  he  was 
shouting. 

The  groans  were  increasing  from  the  audience. 
The  noise  attracted  Mr.  Griswold's  attention 
again. 

"This  won't  do;  this  won't  do,"  he  started 
muttering.  His  mind  didn't  seem  very  clear. 


226  The  Last  Christian 

But  then  the  stimulus  passed  out  of  his  brain, 
and  he  was  silent  again.  He  was  frightfully  thin, 
I  thought,  as  I  grasped  his  arm — weazened  to 
bone  and  gristle.  But  what  a  huge  man  he  was 
still.  He  got  very  heavy  leaning  away  from 
Celeste  toward  me. 

We  got  him  finally  to  the  house.  We  were 
pretty  slow.  They  were  playing,  by  the  time  we 
got  there,  the  song  which  followed  the  exhortation. 
The  bleat  of  the  trombone  came  across  the  still 
street,  and  we  heard  the  congregation  singing  that 
song  I  had  not  heard  before  until  then : 

"  My  good  old  Mother's  Bible  is  good  enough  for  me." 

They  were  still  singing  it,  when  we  helped  Mr. 
Griswold  upstairs  to  his  old  bedroom,  and  he  lay 
down  heavily  upon  the  creaking,  high,  old-fash- 
ioned bed. 

"  You  are  kind,  sir,"  he  said  to  me.  "  You  are 
very  kind."  Then  his  eyes  closed  heavily. 

I  went  away  for  the  doctor.  They  were  pray- 
ing in  the  church  when  we  hurried  back  together. 

The  doctor  was  upstairs  for  some  time.  I 
waited  in  the  old  library.  Then  finally  we  came 
away  together.  Celeste  would  let  us  do  nothing 
more  for  her.  And  in  fact  the  doctor  reassured 
her  about  her  father's  condition. 

"  He's  trying  to  have  a  little  stroke,  I  think," 
he  said  to  me  as  we  went  away  together.  "  His 


This  Is  None  Other  but  the  House  of  God    227 

arteries  are  old;  he's  been  under  a  long  nervous 
strain.  But  he'll  be  all  right  tonight — and  prob- 
ably for  some  time." 

It  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  just  what  he  had 
thought — but  with  a  little  more  after  effect  than 
he  had  first  expected.  From  that  time  on,  there 
was  that  little  hitch  in  Mr.  Griswold's  walk;  that 
invisible  ball  and  chain  which  he  dragged  after 
him,  until  the  day  he  died. 

The  services,  naturally,  that  last  night,  were 
long.  They  were  singing  again  their  chief  song: 
"  Roll  us,  roll  us,  Savior,"  when  we  came  out 
of  the  door  of  the  old  parsonage.  We  stopped  a 
moment  on  the  walk  and  listened. 

"  They  do  it  better  on  the  Congo,"  said  the 
doctor. 

The  rhythmic  rolling  of  the  song  came  out 
across  the  silent  air — the  trombone  leading. 

"  Much  better,"  said  the  doctor.  "  They  use 
the  drum.  It  sets  them  dancing  quicker." 

They  began  coming  out  soon  after,  some  of  the 
first  of  them,  bearing  on  their  lapels  that  awful 
button  that  Mr.  Tubbs  had  worn. 

They  were  talking,  I  knew,  some  of  them,  about 
Mr.  Griswold's  attack.  But  strangely  enough 
there  hadn't  many  of  them  noticed  it.  The  voice 
and  gestures  of  the  Evangelist  had  focussed  their 
attention.  What  few  had  seen  the  old  man  leave, 
were  not  alarmed  by  the  occurrence.  Mr.  Millett 


228  The  Last  Christian 

had  assured  them  that  it  was  of  no  serious  con- 
sequence. 

And  now  the  doctor  gave  a  second  assurance 
that  all  was  right,  to  the  groups  that  met  us. 

"  That's  right,"  said  the  Doctor  to  me  after. 
"  Oh,  he'll  come  out  all  right.  He's  tough." 

I  saw  the  doctor  at  the  door.  He  wasn't  very 
talkative.  He  was  tired,  I  think.  He  had  had  a 
long  day.  We  were  both  thinking,  more  than 
talking. 

We  came  to  his  yard  at  last. 

"  Jerusalem,  Jerusalem,"  said  the  doctor 
"  thou  that  killest  the  Prophets!  " 

He  paused. 

"Christianity!  Good  God!"  he  broke  out 
suddenly.  "  I  wouldn't  treat  an  old  dog  the  way 
these  churches  treat  their  broken  down  minis- 
ters." 

I  had  never  heard  him  speak  as  bitterly  before. 


CHAPTER  XII 
THE  DEAD  PROPHETS 

1WENT  away  three  days  after  that,  and  was 
gone  for  two  months.  The  development  of 
the  newer  biological  work  of  this  country, 
which  has  grown  of  such  importance  now,  was 
already  well  under  way  then.  And  a  particular 
opportunity  for  apprenticeship  and  study  had 
brought  me  back  from  Germany  to  New  York. 
I  was  there  in  the  city  through  that  summer.  And 
it  was  September  before  I  came  back  again  to  the 
old  Street;  before  I  had  that  unexpected  visit  from 
Mr.  Griswold. 

It  was  the  morning  after  the  day  I  arrived.  I 
was  looking  out  a  window,  across  the  lawn  to- 
wards the  church,  when  I  saw  the  figure  of  the  old 
man  emerge  from  the  rear  door — the  door  into 
the  vestry.  He  hesitated,  looked  around,  es- 
pecially towards  the  street.  Then  started  walk- 
ing across  our  lawn.  I  was  naturally  surprised. 
Never  since  my  grandfather's  days  had  he  been 
inside  my  house.  And  never,  that  I  could  remem- 
ber, had  I  seen  him  coming  by  that  way — across 
the  lawn. 

229 


230  The  Last  Christian 

He  did  not  see  me  from  where  I  stood.  I 
watched  him  in  his  slow  advance,  with  his  cane — 
sidling  a  little,  dragging  that  invisible  ball  and 
chain,  which  his  illness  had  fastened  on  him.  It 
was  depressing,  very,  to  see  it  for  the  first  time — 
the  clogged  progress  of  that  big,  powerful,  free- 
moving  figure  I  had  seen  from  childhood  go 
striding  by  our  door.  It  hesitated  again  for  a 
moment  near  the  house,  choosing  between  the 
front  and  back  way.  And  finally,  to  my  still 
greater  mystification,  turned  toward  the  back.  I 
passed  through  the  house  to  our  side  porch  to 
meet  him,  and  was  there  when  he  came. 

He  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  a  moment, 
looking  up  at  me. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Morgan,"  he  said.  "  Are 
you  at  leisure?  " 

"  Certainly,"  I  said,  and  welcomed  him  as 
warmly  as  I  knew  how. 

He  clambered  slowly  up  the  steps,  sideways,  as 
a  little  child  does. 

"  I  am  awkward,"  he  said. 

"  There's  plenty  of  time,"  I  assured  him,  and 
we  said  no  more,  until  he  reached  the  top  of  the 
steps,  and  we  shook  hands. 

He  was  strong  enough,  when  he  had  come  up 
— though  pretty  slow.  We  went  into  the  house, 
the  old  sitting  room,  the  place  where  he  had  al- 
ways been  received  by  my  grandfather.  The  room 


The  Dead  Prophets  231 

was  just  as  it  had  been,  except  for  the  usual  mor- 
bid desire  of  my  old  New  England  housekeeper  to 
shut  and  cover  everything  up. 

The  two  great  steel  engravings,  which  fur- 
nished the  touch  of  majesty  desired  in  the  sixties 
to  my  grandfather's  chief  room,  dominated  the 
place.  The  smell  of  the  bunches  of  pampas  grass, 
from  the  high  red  vases  on  the  mantelpiece,  had 
saturated  the  close  air.  I  opened  a  window  and 
pushed  up  the  shades  a  little  higher  for  more  light. 

Mr.  Griswold,  by  force  of  habit,  had  settled 
himself  in  the  old  black  armchair  he  had  always 
occupied.  I  could  almost  feel,  as  he  sat  there,  his 
great  bony  knee  at  my  back  again,  as  when  he  had 
drawn  me  toward  him  when  a  boy.  He  sat  for 
a  moment;  his  eyes  passed  once  around  the  room 
in  silence.  Then  he  addressed  himself  to  me. 

"  We  are  not  liable  to  be  overheard  here?  "  he 
asked,  and  looked  around  again. 

"  No,"  I  said. 

"No;  I  thought  not,"  he  said  heavily,  and 
paused  a  moment,  his  hands  supported  upon  his 
ivory-headed  cane.  His  temples  seemed  even 
hollower  than  before,  I  noticed.  His  legs  tapered 
off,  thin  and  shrunken,  just  above  the  knee,  as 
they  often  do  in  very  old  men.  There  was  a  big 
tear,  very  neatly  darned,  in  his  trouser  leg. 

"  I  have  come  to  advise  with  you,"  he  said 
slowly,  "  upon  a  matter  of  business." 


232  The  Last  Christian 

"  Yes,"  I  said. 

"  I  have  determined,"  he  said,  "  to  sell  my  li- 
brary," and  paused. 

"  Oh,  have  you,"  I  exclaimed,  and  waited  for 
him. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Griswold.  And  stopped 
quite  a  little  time. 

"  I  believed  you  would  be  willing  to  give  me 
the  benefit  of  your  knowledge,"  he  went  on. 

"  More  than  willing,  Mr.  Griswold,"  I  said. 
"  If  I  have  any." 

"  You  have,  I  think,"  he  said. 

He  laid  by  his  cane  then,  beside  his  chair;  felt 
in  his  inner  coat  pocket,  and  brought  out  some 
folded  sheets  of  note  paper. 

"  I  have  here,"  he  said,  displaying  them,  "  a 
list  of  the  volumes.  In  matters  of  this  kind,  we 
cannot  be  too  business-like." 

11  No,"  I  said. 

He  handed  them  to  me.  I  looked  over,  rather 
helplessly,  the  scrawled,  aged  writing. 

"  I  have  taken  this  list  myself,"  he  explained. 
"  In  one  column,  you  will  see,  are  the  volumes  by 
titles — fourteen  hundred  and  sixty,  as  I  remem- 
ber it." 

"  Fourteen  hundred  and  sixty-three,"  I  said. 

"  Yes.  On  the  other  column  I  have  put  their 
cost  to  me  approximately.  You  see  it?" 

11  Yes." 


The  Dead  Prophets  233 

"  Fifteen  hundred  and  fifty  dollars — about — 
estimated,  you  understand.  I  could  not  be  exact — 
not  over  so  great  a  lapse  of  time." 

"  Of  course  not,"  I  said. 

"  This  library  was  completed  a  good  many 
years  ago.  I  was  a  young  man  at  that  time.  It 
was  before  my  marriage.  Since  then  I  have  not 
been  able  to  save  much  for  such  matters." 

He  stopped  for  a  while,  gazing  across  the  room. 

"  No,"  he  said,  rousing  himself. 

"  Now  in  the  first  place,  we  must  not  deceive 
ourselves,"  he  went  on.  "  We  must  not  over-es- 
timate the  value  of  this  collection.  Many  of  these 
volumes  are  quite  old — their  bindings  are  old." 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  I  said,  trying  to  say  some- 
thing. "  But  there  might  be " 

"  Yes,"  interrupted  the  old  man,  his  eyes  light- 
ing. "  I  think  I  catch  your  drift,  sir;  I  think  I  can 
understand  what  you  are  going  to  say.  There 
might  be  volumes  there  of  some  value  for  that 
reason." 

"  Yes,"  I  said. 

"  Exactly.  Have  you  ever  had  any  experience 
or  knowledge  in  this  line,  may  I  ask?"  he  said, 
looking  expectantly  into  my  eyes. 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  I'm  afraid  not." 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Griswold.  "No;  I  see.  It 
would  not  be  in  your  line  of  experience."  But  he 
was  visibly  disappointed. 


234  The  Last  Christian 

"  Some  rare  books,  of  course,  become  in  time 
very  valuable,"  he  said. 

"  Extremely  so,"  I  said. 

"Well,  we  could  scarcely  expejct  that.  We 
must  not  deceive  ourselves,"  said  Mr.  Griswold. 
"  That's  absolutely  essential." 

"  No,"  I  said.    And  there  was  a  little  silence. 

"  I  know  this,"  said  Mr.  Griswold,  suddenly 
breaking  it.  "  I  know  many  visiting  clergymen 
have  told  me  that  a  number  of  my  books  were 
now  quite  rare.  That  they  would  greatly  like  to 
have  them,  themselves." 

"  I  can  imagine  it,"  I  said. 

"  However,"  he  went  on,  at  last,  "  that  is 
problematical  at  best.  We  must  not  count  much 
on  it." 

"  Perhaps  not,"  I  said. 

He  had  taken  his  list  from  me  again,  and  was 
turning  it  over. 

"  My  books;  my  books,"  he  said  absently. 

"  Now  here,"  he  said,  going  on,  "  here  are  my 
autograph  copies."  He  went  silent  staring  at 
the  page.  "  I  have  quite  a  number  of  them — a 
shelf  by  themselves.  Here  are  two  full  pages,  you 
see."  He  stopped  again.  "  You  may  remember 
them,"  he  said. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  I  said.    I  did. 

"  I  was  fortunate  in  being  acquainted  with 
many  of  the  foremost  Christian  writers  in  my 


The  Dead  Prophets  235 

day.  I  had  copies  directly  from  them  themselves 
— or  through  their  influence.  Here  is  one,  for 
instance — by  Mark  Hopkins — sent  personally. 
Another  by  Doctor  J.  Pye  Smith,  the  great  Chris- 
tian writer  on  geology — not  so  well  known  today, 
perhaps.  But  a  man  of  great  erudition.  And 
others.  One,  even,  from  Henry  Ward  Beecher." 
He  glanced  up  under  his  thick  eyebrows  at  me. 

"  Indeed,"  I  said. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "and  others.  Doctor  S. 
Clarke  also.  And  John  Brown,  the  great  author- 
ity on  exegesis  and  hermeneutics.  And  the  widely- 
known  John  Kitto.  Yes,  these  should  be  worth 
something.  They  should  count  for  something." 

"  I  should  think  so,"  I  said  warmly. 

"  And  then,  of  course,  there  are  the  standard 
books — Edwards  on  the  Will;  the  works  of 
Ewald  and  others — a  long  list  of  them." 

"  I  see,"  I  said,  looking  at  the  pages  he  pointed 
to. 

"  About  the  others,  we  might  easily  deceive  our- 
selves," he  went  on.  "  But  here,  I  believe,  we  are 
on  more  solid  ground.  I  have  found  it  always  an 
excellent  working  library  for  a  minister." 

"  Yes.  Yes.  Here  are  my  books,"  he  said, 
turning  over  his  list  slowly.  "  I  may  be  wrong,  I 
may  be  wrong,  but  I  feel  that  I  should  realize  a 
good — possibly  a  considerable  sum  from  their 
sale." 


236  The  Last  Christian 

"  I  should  think  you  might,"  I  said  guardedly. 

"  Now  then,"  said  Mr.  Griswold,  sitting  up  a 
little,  "  there  comes  the  method  of  disposing  of 
them." 

"  Yes." 

"  I  had  thought  at  first  of  selling  the  books  as 
a  whole  to  some  clergyman.  The  difficulty  there 
is  that  there  are  so  few  ministers  with  the  means 
for  a  purchase  of  such  magnitude." 

"  Yes." 

"  Yes.  Finally  I  made  up  my  mind  that  it 
would  be  better  to  get  in  touch  with  some  dealer 
in  second  hand  books." 

"  I  should  think  so,"  I  said. 

"  Yes.  I  weighed  the  matter  quite  carefully 
before  taking  action,"  he  said.  "  Then  I  reached 
the  conclusion  that  I  would  come  to  you.  I  re- 
called that  at  one  time  I  heard  you  speak  of  hav- 
ing dealt  with  these  dealers  in  books." 

As  he  spoke  I  remembered  having  talked  with 
him  once  while  in  college  about  buying  books  at 
second  hand.  Since  then,  it  happened,  I  had  many 
times  patronized  the  book  stands  on  the  streets  of 
New  York.  I  was  naturally  glad  to  see  if  I 
could  help  him. 

"  Could  you  let  me  have  your  list?"  I  asked 
him. 

"  Certainly,"  he  said. 

"  If  you  will,"  I  said,  "  the  best  way,  it  seems  to 


The  Dead  Prophets  237 

me,  will  be  for  me  to  take  it  with  me  to  New 
York." 

"Very  well — excellent,"  he  said. 

"  There  is  one  thing,  however,"  said  Mr.  Gris- 
wold, hesitating.  "  Shall  you  be  going  soon?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  quite  soon." 

He  still  hesitated.  "When — how  soon?"  he 
said  at  last.  "  You  see,"  he  went  on,  "  I'm  in 
this  position:  the  fact  is,  I  must  make  this  ar- 
rangement, if  at  all,  very  soon." 

"  How  soon?  "  I  prompted  him. 

"  I  must  know,"  said  Mr.  Griswold,  "  by  the 
first  of  the  coming  month,  at  the  very  latest." 

"  I  can  arrange  that,"  I  said. 

"  You  can  be  sure?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  said.  "  I'm  going  down  the  first 
of  next  week.  And  I'm  coming  right  back  again 
— in  three  or  four  days  at  most." 

"  That  will  be  in  time,"  said  Mr.  Griswold, 
"  in  ample  time." 

"  Very  well,"  I  said.    "  Then  we'll  do  that." 

An  expression  of  marked  relief  came  on  his 
face:  He  settled  back  a  moment  in  his  chair. 
His  eyes  passed  about  the  old  room  again. 

"  You  have  not  changed  this  room,  I  see,"  he 
said.  "  You've  left  it  exactly  as  your  grandfather 
had  it." 

"  Yes,"  I  said. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Griswold.     "  I'm  glad  you 


238  The  Last  Christian 

have.  I'm  glad  you  have."  His  eyes  lingered  on 
one  familiar  object  after  another.  "  I  have 
passed  many  pleasant  hours  here." 

"  Well,  I  must  be  going,"  he  said,  starting  to 
get  up. 

"  Don't— yet,"  I  begged  him. 

"  My  daughter  will  be  wondering  where  I  am," 
he  said.  "  Oh,  one  thing  more,"  he  exclaimed, 
settling  back.  "  You  see,  my  daughter —  I 
prefer  that  you  do  not  speak  to  her  on  this 
matter." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  I  said.     "  Very  well." 

He  sat  still,  looking  before  him  several  mo- 
ments before  he  spoke  again.  "  I  prefer  that  she 
does  not  know,"  he  said,  a  little  stiffly. 

I  noticed  his  eyes  then,  how  bruised  they  looked, 
how  deep  they  seemed  to  set  back  in  the  skull. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  explaining,  "  the  danger  is 
this.  She  would  oppose  it;  she  would  do  all  she 
could  to  prevent." 

"  Why,"  I  asked,  "  what  makes  you  think  so?  " 

"  For  this  reason,"  he  said.  "  My  daughter 
has  an  idea — an  entirely  false  idea  of  the  senti- 
mental value  I  have  attached  to  my  books." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  see,"  I  said,  remembering  what 
his  library  had  been  to  him,  the  pride  he  had  al- 
ways taken  in  it. 

"Sentiment!"  he  said,  his  voice  rising.  "If 
it  were  ten  times  as  great  as  it  is,  yet  I  would  sell 


The  Dead  Prophets  239 

them.  I  can't  have — I  cannot  have  things  as  they 
are  now.  No!  " 

He  sat  still  several  seconds  more,  his  hands  on 
the  head  of  his  cane,  his  eyes  straight  ahead. 

"  You  see,  my  daughter,"  he  said  again,  and 
stopped.  "  Do  you  know  what  she's  doing  now?  " 
he  asked  and  looked  up  abruptly.  I  noticed  for 
the  first  time  a  glint  in  his  eye. 

"  No,"  I  said. 

"  Sewing,"  he  said,  more  loudly.  "  She's  sew- 
ing at  night — secretly,  for  others,  for  pay." 

He  struggled  to  his  feet;  and  stood,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  mine. 

"  Sewing,"  he  repeated.  "  One  day's  work 
piled  upon  another.  Daytimes  she  is  my  house- 
keeper, my  amanuensis.  Daytimes  and  night- 
times my  reader — reading  often  far  into  the  night 
— on  the  pretext  that  I  do  not  sleep.  She  does 
this  every  day  and  night  of  her  life,  and  has  for 
over  a  year  now;  and  always,  without  fail,  since 
this  trouble  of  mine,  this  lameness  confines  me." 

"  As  you  know,"  he  explained,  "  I  was  active — 
quite  active  before  this — this  trouble.  Now  I  am 
confined  quite  closely  to  my  chair.  She  makes  that 
a  reason  for  amusing  me,  diverting  my  mind." 

He  started  limping  down  the  room,  turned 
awkwardly  and  came  back. 

"For  what  purpose  does  she  do  this?"  he 
asked,  his  eyes  searching  mine. 


240  The  Last  Christian 

"  For  the  sole  and  only  purpose  of  occupying 
me;  of  keeping  me  from  this  thinking,"  he  an- 
swered himself. 

"  Thinking,"  he  said  absently,  "  thinking.  To 
keep  me  from  thinking!  "  he  went  on  more  loudly. 
"  She  cannot  prevent  this  thinking.  No  one  can. 
The  very  thing  she's  doing  now  to  prevent  it 
makes  me  think  the  more.  This  midnight  sewing 
— this  piling  night's  work  upon  day — this  wearing 
herself  out,  year  in  and  year  out  for  me,  this  tak- 
ing upon  herself  the  whole  burden  of  that  mort- 
gage payment — that  responsibility  which  stands 
before  us  at  the  beginning  of  next  month !  " 

So  that  was  what  they  faced!  That  old  fa- 
miliar financial  cancer — that  old  secret  disease 
which  I  had  seen  before  since  eat  out  the  life  of 
so  many  of  the  older  families  about  the  street.  I 
had  not  known  before  that  the  Griswolds  had  one. 

"  I  will  not  have  it.  I  will  not.  No,"  he  said, 
striking  his  fist  upon  the  marble  top  of  the  old 
center  table.  "  I  will  not  accept  all  this  from  her 
any  longer.  I  cannot.  I  must  have  my  self-re- 
spect. We  must  all  have  our  self-respect — no 
matter  what  our  age.  Old  or  young,  none  of  us 
will  be  a  burden  upon  others.  Never!  " 

He  stopped  suddenly,  feeling  pain  from  his  blow 
upon  the  table,  perhaps. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  under  his  breath,  "  I'm  talk- 
ing too  much." 


The  Dead  Prophets  241 

I  could  just  hear  him  say  it.  He  was  thinking 
aloud,  according  to  his  old  habit. 

He  took  his  hat  and  cane  from  beside  the  chair 
he  had  sat  in;  he  would  not  stay  a  moment  longer. 

"  You  will  see  me  when  you  return?  "  he  asked. 

"  At  once,"  I  said. 

"  Any  offer — any  offer,  within  reason,"  he  said. 

"  Very  well,"  I  answered. 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,"  he  said.    "  Good  day." 

He  clambered  down  the  steps  again  in  silence, 
hesitated,  turned  again  to  the  back  way,  which  I 
knew  now,  of  course,  he  was  taking  to  escape  the 
notice  of  his  daughter. 

I  watched  him  from  my  window  pass  once 
more  across  the  lawn,  around  the  church  home — 
head  down,  silent,  hitching  after  him  his  invisible 
ball  and  chain. 

I  saw  him  once  or  twice  in  his  own  house  the 
next  few  days;  he  came  in  while  Celeste  and  I 
were  talking.  And  several  times  my  eye  roamed 
casually  over  his  library — estimating  the  current 
value  of  the  messages  of  those  seers  and  prophets 
along  the  wall;  reviewing  again  the  ranks  of  the 
dead  Doctors  of  Divinity  in  their  faded  bindings 
upon  his  shelves. 

Then  the  first  of  next  week  I  was  in  New  York 
again,  with  my  list  of  them,  to  place  before  the 
booksellers. 

There  was  a  Jew,  who  kept  a  bookstand  on 


242  The  Last  Christian 

Twenty-third  Street  in  those  days — a  good-na- 
tured, unshaven,  friendly  fellow,  who  sat  continu- 
ally out  of  the  light  of  day  in  his  dark  cellar  full 
of  books;  slouched  down  in  a  round-backed  cane 
chair,  his  derby  hat  hanging  on  the  back  of  his 
head,  living  and  breathing  and  having  his  being 
in  that  perpetual  dead  atmosphere  of  dried 
thoughts  and  withered  sentiments — happy  as  a 
bug  in  a  tomb. 

I  took  him  in  the  list  of  Mr.  Griswold's  books. 
He  looked  it  over — with  my  aid.  For  Mr.  Gris- 
wold's writing  was  pretty  difficult.  He  laid  it 
down,  when  he  was  done;  took  it  up  again.  He 
was  undoubtedly  interested. 

"  I  have  been  many  years  in  this  business,"  said 
the  bookman,  "  but  I  have  not  yet  seen  one  like 
this."  And  he  examined  it  again. 

"Where  does  it  come  from?"  he  asked. 

"  New  England." 

"Way  up?" 

"  Yes,"  I  said.     "  Pretty  far  up." 

He  looked  it  over  again,  dwelling  on  the  au- 
thors' names.  "  Sometimes  we  used  to  get  'em," 
he  said,  " — these  old  Christian  libraries — out  of 
them  old  houses — sometimes  twenty  years  ago, 
when  I  was  first  in  this  business.  Honest,  I  tell 
you  the  trut',  I  ain't  seen  one  for  years.  And 
nothin'  like  this  one — never." 

He  was  interested,   sentimentally  and  profes- 


The  Dead  Prophets  243 

sionally.  "  Yes,  sir,"  he  said  sadly,  turning  the 
leaves,  "  and  I  betcha  they  cost  a  lost  of  money 
once.  Fifteen  hundred  dollars?  "  he  added,  read- 
ing. "My,  my  I" 

"  What's  it  worth  to  you  now?  "  I  asked. 

"  Nothin' !  "  he  responded  quickly. 

"  Nothing,"  I  said.  "  It's  certainly  worth 
something." 

"I  tell  you  the  trut':  I  don't  want  it  at  no 
price,"  he  said.  "  Look  here,  I  show  you,  look." 
He  turned  over  the  sheets  again. 

"  Jonathan  Edwards — well,  I  get  something  for 
him — Paley — yes,  something.  Kitto — yes,  they 
use  him  now,  some.  But  who  is  this — this  J.  Pye 
Smith,  D.D.,  I  have  not  heard  of  him.  Then  this 
here,  Doctor  S.  Clarke — who  is  this  man — I  do  not 
know  him.  All  these  years  I'm  in  business,  I  do 
not  hear  of  him — nor  all  these  other  fellows  here. 
No,  no,  no,  no — I  tell  you,  I  don't  want  them,  I 
have  no  call  for  them." 

"  You  can  give  something,"  I  said.  "  These 
authors'  copies,  these  ones  with  autographs, 
Henry  Ward  Beecher,  now  that's  worth  some- 
thing." 

"  Maybe,  who  knows?  A  dollar — two  dollars 
for  him,  maybe.  But  who  else? — Mark  Hopkins 
— fifty  cents,  say.  Who  else?" 

"  But  something,"  I  said,  "  you  can  give  some- 
thing." 


244  The  Last  Christian 

"  Oh,  well — I  give  twenty-five — yes,  I  give  you 
thirty  dollars.  No,  that's  all.  No,  positively.  No. 
Honest,  I'd  rather  not  take  them — at  no  price. 

"  Look,  I  tell  you,  what  I  do  with  you,"  he 
said,  getting  up.  "  I'll  sell  you  some.  Look." 

He  showed  me  two  deep  alcoves,  filled  with 
books — more  and  other  Doctors  of  Divinity,  row 
after  row,  imprisoned  there  in  his  dingy  cata- 
combs. 

"  Some  I  have  ten — twenty  years.  What  shall 
I  do — sell  them?  How?  When  I  get  ten  cents 
apiece  for  them,  on  the  average,  I  do  well.  You 
take  them!"  he  said,  the  thought  striking  him. 
"  I  tell  you,  I  sell  them  all  to  you  for  that  money 
now — without  one  word.  We  say  no  more.  You 
take  them." 

"  I  don't  want  them,"  I  said,  "  at  any  price. 
They're  of  no  use  to  me." 

"No,"  he  said.  "You  see?  I  tell  you  the 
trut',  there  ain't  no  market  for  them.  There  ain't 
no  customers  no  more  for  these  goods,"  he  said. 

He  didn't  want  them — that  was  clear. 

"  Ain't  it  funny,"  he  said,  philosophizing, 
"  how  books  change — all  of  them.  The  books  we 
get  now — they  won't  be  wort'  nothing  two  years 
from  now.  I  got  an  uncle  in  the  provision  busi- 
ness. I  tell  him  they've  got  so  they  keep  eggs 
with  them  new  ice-making  plants  now,  longer  than 
we  can  books." 


The  Dead  Prophets  245 

He  laughed  a  short  business-like  laugh. 

"  Honest,  they  do,"  he  said,  his  round  eyes  get- 
ting rounder.  "  Honest,  I  mean  it!  " 

He  stood  phlegmatically  in  the  door  as  I  left 
— an  untidy,  cheerful,  philosophical  creature. 

"  Well,  you  try  someone  else,"  he  suggested. 
"  You  see  what  they  give  you." 

I  did.  There  was  no  material  advance.  I  saw 
soon  very  clearly  what  I  should  have  understood 
before,  that  Mr.  Griswold's  library — that  won- 
derful thesaurus  of  supernatural  wisdom  of  my 
youth  was  now  practically  no  asset  at  all  to  him. 

I  had  not  ever  thought,  in  fact,  that  it  would 
be  a  great  one.  I  had  imagined,  tho,  that  it 
would  have  been  worth  enough  at  least  to  make 
plausible  some  transaction  by  which  it  would  bring 
him  money  in  some  way.  A  transaction,  in  fact, 
in  which  I  myself,  under  cover  of  someone  else's 
name,  could  pose  as  a  purchaser — or  better  still, 
as  leaner  of  money  on  his  books  as  collateral. 
And,  in  spite  of  everything,  I  had  partly  made 
arrangements  with  my  friend,  the  book  dealer,  to 
carry  such  an  enterprise — if  I  should  find  it 
feasible. 

The  difficulty  was,  of  course,  how  to  make  it 
plausible.  For,  in  carrying  it  through,  I  must 
face  the  scrutiny  in  Celeste  Griswold's  eyes.  With 
her  father  alone,  it  might  have  been  different — 
not  so  difficult.  But  sooner  or  later,  Celeste  her- 


246  The  Last  Christian 

self  would  know.  I  doubted  my  ability  to  carry 
out  before  her  quite  so  transparent  a  transaction. 

But  as  it  happened,  I  was  never  destined  to  at- 
tempt it. 

I  was  on  the  train,  going  home,  when  I  ran 
across  Mr.  Millett,  the  young  minister.  He  was 
sitting  alone,  ahead  of  me,  head  down,  thinking. 
He  seemed  somehow  more  scared,  more  shrinking, 
more  flitting  than  ever.  He  did  not  see  me  at 
first,  but  he  passed  back  going  through  the  car,  at 
last,  and  was  naturally  held  by  the  social  code  of 
his  profession  to  stop  and  exchange  a  few  ameni- 
ties with  me.  I  was  sorry  for  him.  It  was  so 
evidently  against  the  dictates  of  his  personal  in- 
clination. 

"  You  are  going  home,  I  see,"  he  said,  flashing 
and  closing  his  quick  smile. 

"  Yes.     I  suppose  you  are,  too,"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said.  "  But  not  for  long."  He 
seemed  unusually  nervous.  "  You  see,"  he  went 
on,  "  I'm  leaving  the  old  church.  I'm  resigning 
— as  you  perhaps  know." 

"  No,"  I  said.     "  I  had  not  heard  it." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Millett.  "  That  is  my 
decision." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  I  said.    "  I  thought  you  liked  it." 

"  I  did.    I  did — in  many  ways,"  he  said. 

"  It's  too  bad,"  I  said.  "  What  will  they  do 
without  you  ?  " 


The  Dead  Prophets  247 

"  It  is  their  present  purpose,  I  understand," 
said  Mr.  Millett,  "  to  close  the  church.  That  is, 
I  so  understand  it,"  he  qualified. 

"  You  don't  mean  that!  "  I  said. 

"  Yes,  that  is  it,  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Millett. 
"  You  will  pardon  me,  won't  you,  you'll  excuse  me 
now,  won't  you?  I  must  go  on.  I  am  on  my  way 
through  to  the  next  car.  I  am  so  glad  to  have  seen 
you,  even  for  this  little  minute." 

He  flashed  his  quick  disappearing  smile,  and 
vanished  himself — did  not  return  again  to  the  car. 
I  have  never  seen  him  since.  My  last  impression 
of  him  was  like  my  first — an  immature,  and  fright- 
ened soul,  continually  in  flight  before  some  tre- 
mendous following  doom. 

Naturally,  for  the  time  being,  the  matter  of  the 
library  dropped  into  secondary  importance  with 
me  then.  My  first  purpose  in  the  town  was  to 
call  on  Mr.  Doty — and  understand  the  new  plan. 

I  sought  out  Mr.  Doty  that  very  afternoon  of 
my  arrival;  found  him  in  his  shining  office — still 
amiable,  still  with  his  affectionate  hand  wandering 
about  your  shoulders — but  just  a  little  less  demon- 
strative towards  me — a  shade  less  cordial.  He 
had  been  so,  I  felt,  since  I  had  failed  to  carry 
out  his  wish  that  I  consult  with  Dr.  Spurdle  con- 
cerning my  religious  doubts. 

"How  do  you  do,  Calvin?  I'm  very  glad  to 
see  you,"  he  said,  giving  me  a  chair  beside  him. 


248  The  Last  Christian 

There  was  the  slightest  touch  of  formality  in  his 
voice. 

"  I've  come  to  ask  you,"  I  said  at  once:  "  Is  it 
true  that  you're  going  to  close  up  the  church?  " 

"  Yes,  Calvin,"  said  Mr.  Doty.  "  It  is  quite 
possible.  Quite  possible.  We  have  called  a  meet- 
ing of  the  Society  for  that  purpose  on  next  Mon- 
day morning. 

"  Isn't  it  rather  sudden,"  I  asked,  "  this 
move?  " 

"Well,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Doty.  "You  see,  we 
had  an  offer  for  the  building — that  was  the 
special  reason  for  acting  now." 

"  An  offer — from  whom?  "  I  asked. 

"  From  the  Odd  Fellows,"  said  Mr.  Doty.  "  It 
seems  there  is  a  plan  on  foot  for  establishing  a 
temple — an  Odd  Fellows'  temple  here.  A  good 
idea — an  excellent  idea,  too." 

I  was  silent. 

"  It  is  on  the  trolley  line — quite  convenient,  you 
see,"  said  Mr.  Doty. 

I  had  nothing  to  say  to  that. 

"  You  see,  it  was  an  offer — a  real  offer,  which 
would  take  the  building  off  our  hands — relieve 
the  mortgagees,"  he  went  on,  explaining.  "  It 
was  unexpected;  but  we  could  not  disregard  it. 
Offers  for  church  property  are  not  usual." 

"  No,"  I  said. 

"  I  said  the  offer  was  responsible,"  qualified 


The  Dead  Prophets  249 

Mr.  Doty.  "  But  that  isn't  it  either.  That  didn't 
close  the  church.  The  whole  thing  is  the  old 
church  is  running  down.  It  would  have  to  be 
done  anyhow.  This  offer  merely  brought  it  to 
a  head." 

~  "What's  the  plan  for  the  congregation?"  I 
asked. 

"  The  same  as  before,"  said  Mr.  Doty.  "  We 
will  go  over  to  the  Brick  Church,  to  Dr. 
Spurdle's." 

"  Millett  has  gone,  I  understand,"  I  said. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Doty,  "  an  excellent  young 
man — but  not  a  strong  man.  No,  not  a  strong 
personality." 

"  And  Mr.  Griswold,"  I  said,  "  what's  to  be- 
some  of  him?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Mr.  Doty.  "  That's 
one  of  the  questions  we  must  take  up." 

"  Poor  old  Mr.  Griswold,"  I  said,  thinking 
aloud. 

"  Yes,  it  is  too  bad,"  said  Mr.  Doty.  "  It's 
painful." 

"  Cruel,  I  should  call  it.  Just  plain  cruel,"  I 
said,  too  warmly. 

"Well,  no;  no,  I  don't  think  so.  Not  quite 
that,"  said  Mr.  Doty.  "  You  see,  you  must  re- 
member that  that  church  has  been  kept  open  for 
some  time,  practically  for  him.  There  are  two 
sides,  my  boy,  to  every  question." 


250  The  Last  Christian 

"  Has  he  been  paid  to  date?  "  I  asked. 

"  Well,  no,"  said  Mr.  Doty.  "  No— not  for 
the  past  three  months." 

"Not  paid!"  I  said. 

"  He's  a  problem — a  very  difficult  problem," 
Mr.  Doty  hastened  to  say.  "  He  can  do  nothing 
now.  And  he's  grown  very  old,  very  erratic. 
Sometimes  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Doty  very  confi- 
dentially, "  that  he's  not  all  right — not  entirely, 
you  know — not  just  right." 

"You  think  so?"  I  said. 

"  I  do.  But  we  won't  see  him  suffer,"  said  Mr. 
Doty.  "  No.  We'll  do  something,  I  think.  We 
have  that  on  our  minds  and  hearts. 

"  At  the  same  time,"  went  on  Mr.  Doty, — the 
other  Mr.  Doty,  the  business  man,  the  Doty  of 
affairs, — "  there's  another  way  of  looking  at  it. 
Why  should  a  church  be  made  responsible  for  a 
minister?  Why  is  he  any  different  from  you  or 
me?  We're  all  dependent,  you  might  say,  on  some 
going  enterprise.  And  now  this  enterprise  of  his 
— this  church — has  died  out.  It's  failed,  you 
might  say.  If  your  business  failed,  or  mine,  we 
wouldn't  expect  anybody  to  take  care  of  us,  would 
we?  No. 

"  No,"  he  went  on.  "  No.  We've  done  a 
good  deal  for  the  old  man,  and  the  old  church, 
first  and  last.  We  took  up  that  mortgage  our- 
selves. We  got  up  those  revival  services — and 


The  Dead  Prophets  251 

they  cost  money,  too.  But  they  didn't  do  any  good. 
Nothing  did  any  good.  They  didn't  revive — they 
couldn't.  It's  all  continually  been  downhill.  No ; 
I  tell  you,  Calvin,"  said  Mr.  Doty  sadly,  "  I'm 
afraid  the  old  church  has  got  to  go  this  time." 

"  I  hate  to  think  of  its  going,"  I  said.  "  The 
passing  of  the  old  church — forever." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Doty.  "It  does 
seem  so.  I'd  like  to  keep  it  open  myself." 

"  For  sentiment's  sake,"  I  said,  "  at  least — 
if  for  nothing  more  than  sentiment." 

"  Sentiment  is  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Doty.  "  But 
where  are  you  going  to  get  your  money?  " 

I  did  not  know,  of  course. 

"Does  Mr.  Griswold  know  your  plans?"  I 
asked  him. 

"  Well,  no,"  said  Mr.  Doty.  "  We  haven't  told 
him  yet." 


CHAPTER  XIII 
WHAT  Is  UPON  Us? 

IT  was  Celeste  who  brought  the  news  to  her 
father. 

"  I  was  so  glad  I  heard  it  first,"  she  said, 
when  she  told  me  of  it. 

She  went  back  to  the  house,  and  found  him  in 
his  library.  It  was  curious.  When  he  was  active, 
writing  sermons,  he  had  done  most  of  his  work 
away  from  it,  upstairs.  But  now  he  sat  there  a 
good  share  of  the  day,  surrounded  by  his  books. 

He  looked  up  at  her  when  she  came  into  the 
room. 

"  Father,"  she  said,  as  casually  as  she  could, 
"  would  it  surprise  you  if  they  had  to  close  the 
church,  after  all?  " 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence. 

"  What  time  do  they  propose  to  close  it?  "  he 
asked  after  a  little. 

"  Pretty  soon,  I'm  afraid,  dear,"  said  Celeste. 

"When  do  they  have  the  Society  meeting?" 
he  asked  her.  "  When  do  they  act  on  it?  " 

"Next  week;  next  Monday  evening,"  said  Ce- 
leste. 

Then  there  was  silence  between  them. 
252 


What  Is  Upon  Us?  253 

"  They  have  had  a  chance  to  sell  the  building," 
said  Celeste. 

He  did  not  ask  her  to  whom — unusual  as  the 
proceeding  was ;  she  did  not  have  the  heart  to  tell 
him.  She  sank  down  by  him,  and  took  his  hand, 
and  held  it  for  a  long  time,  neither  of  them  speak- 
ing. Then  after  a  while  he  said: 

"  Little  daughter,  I  would  like  to  be  alone." 

So  she  went  out  and  left  him. 

He  didn't  speak  of  it  again  or  scarcely  at  all, 
she  said  when  she  told  me. 

"  I  wish  you  would  go  in  and  see  him,"  said 
Celeste,  "  and  talk  with  him." 

So  I  went  in — alone.  He  sat  there  in  his  arm- 
chair by  the  window — a  big  figure,  a  little 
crumpled,  but  still  suggestive  of  the  strength  that 
was — bone  and  sinew  and  gristle — looking  out  the 
window  toward  the  street,  along  the  side  of  the 
little  old  brown  church. 

He  did  not  speak  of  what  had  happened,  and  I 
did  not. 

I  tried  to  broach  the  sale  of  his  library.  I  had 
intended  merely  to  tell  him  that  it  might  be  best 
to  wait  a  little  before  trying  it.  Celeste  was  out 
of  the  room — purposely — of  course. 

But  he  didn't  care  to  speak  of  it. 

"  Another  time;  another  time,"  he  said. 

Then  we  talked  on  other  matters,  very  calmly, 
very  pleasantly. 


254  The  Last  Christian 

He  spoke  of  my  grandfather  several  times.  "  I 
see  a  look  in  you  like  him,"  he  said,  examining  my 
face.  "But  more  like  your  father;  more  like 
your  father!  Your  mind  is  like  his.  A  restless 
mind.  Pretty  restless — isn't  it?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  I  said.     "  I  suppose  it  is." 

"  I'm  very  glad  you  came,"  he  said  when  I 
left  him — and  turned,  and  started  looking  out 
the  window  again. 

"  He's  that  way  a  good  deal  now,"  said  Ce- 
leste, when  I  told  her  of  his  talk.  "  His  mind 
goes  back.  He  speaks  of  mother  quite  a 
little." 

"  How  does  he  look  to  you?  "  she  asked. 

"  He  seems  very  quiet,"  I  said,  "  and  unex- 
cited." 

"  I  don't  like  it.  I'd  rather  he'd  be  some  other 
way.  He  ought  to  let  me  read  to  him  more;  he 
ought  to  let  me  do  something  for  him." 

I  smiled.  "  Ought "  was  a  favorite  word  with 
Celeste — used  both  for  herself  and  others.  She 
didn't  notice  me.  She  sighed. 

"  Do  you  think  he  ought  to  go  to  that  meet- 
ing? "  she  asked. 

"He'll  go  anyway,  won't  he?"  I  answered. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Celeste. 

So  Mr.  Griswold  was  there,  at  the  corporation 
meeting,  that  Monday  night.  I  was  there  myself, 
at  the  solicitation  of  Mr.  Tubbs — but  legitimately 


What  Is  Upon  Us?  255 

enough,  too.  I  still  had  an  interest,  strictly 
speaking,  in  the  business  of  the  church,  as  a  per- 
manent pew  holder  in  it. 

We  met  in  the  vestry.  There  were  nine  of  us, 
when  we  were  all  there.  We  greeted  each  other 
in  a  rather  subdued  way,  and  sat  down  in  the 
round-backed,  yellow,  wooden  chairs. 

I  looked  around  the  little  place,  dim  under  the 
light  of  its  few  bracket  lamps — the  worn,  cheap 
carpet,  the  battered  hymn  books,  the  low  ceiling, 
the  painted  walls,  dulled  by  the  fingers  of  long- 
grown  generations  of  children. 

"  Pretty  seedy,"  said  Mr.  Tubbs,  who  sat  be- 
side me.  "  Pretty  seedy.  It  will  take  quite  a  lot 
to  fix  it  up,  so  it's  right."  He  was  already,  as  a 
leading  Odd  Fellow,  assuming  an  air  of  pro- 
prietorship. 

The  meeting  organized,  with  Mr.  Doty  in  the 
chair.  The  clerk  of  the  corporation  sat  beside 
him,  the  druggist  of  the  Village;  a  thin,  sandy 
man — not  a  very  regular  attendant  at  church — 
who  worked  in  his  clerical  capacity  in  a  somewhat 
off-hand  way,  always  with  a  quill  toothpick  in  his 
mouth. 

Mr.  Griswold  came  in,  last  of  all.  He  sat  a 
row  ahead  of  me,  at  the  end  of  a  line  of  empty 
chairs. 

The  situation  was  explained  by  Mr.  Doty;  in 
fact,  the  whole  meeting  was  conducted  by  him — 


256  The  Last  Christian 

excellently,  I  thought;  in  a  clear-cut,  business-like 
way. 

The  matter  was  very  simple — as  he  showed. 
There  would  be  great  regret,  he  said,  beginning, 
at  the  closing  of  the  dearly  beloved  church.  But 
after  all,  might  it  not  be  God's  leading?  The 
congregation  would  be  welcomed  in  Dr.  Spurdle's 
church.  He  was  there  now  at  Mr.  Doty's  invi- 
tation, to  give  the  welcome. 

There  was  more  than  could  be  said  of  the  sad- 
ness of  the  time.  But  much,  too,  on  the  other  side 
as  well.  He  spoke  of  the  waste  in  overhead 
charges  for  two  churches,  where  one  would  do. 
He  did  not  think  that  waste,  any  waste,  was  ac- 
ceptable, or  praiseworthy  in  God's  eyes,  more  than 
in  man's.  And  then  Mr.  Doty  passed  directly 
into  the  meeting's  business. 

He  spoke  concisely  and  clearly  of  the  financial 
impossibility  of  the  situation.  The  fact  was  that 
the  church  could  not  go  further.  It  had  not  the 
money  to  pay  its  bills.  He  showed  some  of  them 
— a  coal  bill  in  particular — for  last  winter's  coal. 
How  could  they  pay  it?  They  could  not. 

It  had  seemed  that  the  church  must  be  closed 
anyway.  And  then,  suddenly,  by  luck  some  might 
call  it,  but  he  felt  that  it  was  much  more  like  the 
work  of  Providence — there  was  this  opportunity 
to  sell — an  unexpected,  an  unusual  chance,  which 
he  would  call  upon  Mr.  Tubbs  to  explain. 


What  Is  Upon  Us?  257 

Mr.  Tubbs  explained,  somewhat  clumsily,  the 
hopes  and  aspirations  of  the  Odd  Fellows,  whom 
he  represented,  for  a  permanent  home.  There 
was  a  great  lack,  he  said,  of  good  halls  in  the 
Village.  Other  organizations,  the  Red  Men  in 
particular,  had  been  approached,  and  been  found 
to  have  a  desire  to  co-operate;  to  take  a  hall  on 
other  nights,  if  one  could  be  found.  And  so,  it 
had  just  happened  that  at  this  time  they  were  in 
the  market  for  a  building.  He  knew — everybody 
knew,  that  the  old  church  was  hard  up;  and  was 
probably  going  to  close  anyway.  It  was  only  a 
few  minutes  from  the  Village,  on  the  trolley  line. 
It  might  do.  Others  thought  so.  And  so  he 
had  spoken  to  Mr.  Doty.  That  was  all. 

Mr.  Griswold  did  not  move  nor  look  up  as  he 
spoke.  He  sat  there,  with  his  hands  on  his  cane, 
staring  down — motionless  as  a  graven  image. 

Mr.  Doty  continued  the  business  of  the  meet- 
ing. He  said  another  side  of  the  subject,  upon 
which  something  must  be  said,  was  the  matter  of 
the  mortgage,  and  the  men  who  had  taken  it. 
They  had  come  forward,  and  assumed  the  bur- 
den manfully.  They  must  certainly  be  considered. 
And  this  offer  would  take  the  burden  from  them 
— yes,  and  pay,  perhaps,  some  of  the  other  debts 
besides. 

They  were  there,  the  holders  of  the  mortgage 
— all  of  them.  Mr.  Doty,  of  course,  was  one; 


258  The  Last  Christian 

and  the  clerk  of  the  meeting,  the  druggist.  The 
third  was  the  provision  man  who  drove  his  cart 
about  the  Street.  A  pleasant,  rosy-faced,  quiet 
man,  who  could  scarcely  afford  to  lose  the  money. 

It  was  a  foregone  conclusion  from  the  first. 
The  provision  man  said  a  few  words  hesitatingly. 
Dr.  Spurdle  gave  his  fluent  invitation  for  his 
church.  There  was  ample  room  in  the  Brick 
Church — still  ampler  room  in  the  hearts  and 
memories  of  its  people,  for  the  reception  of  the 
sons  and  daughters  of  its  own  mother,  the  ancient 
church  of  the  valley.  The  occasion  was  sad  in 
many  ways — parting  was  always  sad.  Yet  we 
must  remember:  it  was  not  brick  or  clapboards 
that  made  the  temple  of  God;  it  was  spirit.  He 
spoke,  in  closing,  of  his  delight  in  some  fine  senti- 
ments in  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra. 

Mr.  Griswold,  so  far,  had  said  nothing.  He 
still  sat  motionless,  his  eyes  focussed  now,  appar- 
ently, on  a  coarse,  brown  wall  map  of  Palestine 
behind  the  platform. 

"Can't  we  hear  from  someone  else?"  asked 
Mr.  Doty.  "  Can't  we  hear  a  word  from  him,  to 
whom  our  love  and  reverence  goes  out  particu- 
larly at  this  time — from  our  dear  old  pastor,  Mr. 
Griswold?" 

But  the  old  man  shook  his  head. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  said,  really;  it  was  al- 
ready settled.  The  only  voice,  that  could  be  said 


What  Is  Upon  Us?  259 

to  sound  a  note  of  questioning,  or  reluctance,  was 
that  of  the  bearded  man  who  prayed,  who  spoke 
last  of  all,  arising,  as  always,  with  his  Bible  in 
his  hand.  He  was  just  a  little  doubtful.  They 
had  been  richly  blessed  there,  he  felt;  the  spirit 
had  descended  upon  them  in  full  measure.  He 
had  hoped  that  the  old  church  might  be  snatched, 
even  now,  a  brand  from  the  burning.  But  he 
finally  acknowledged  the  fuller  wisdom  of  the 
other  men — these  men  of  affairs.  They  had 
plumbed  the  problem  more  deeply  than  he.  He 
could  only  trust  their  great  judgment  and  accept. 
No  doubt  they  would  continue  to  be  richly  blessed 
there,  as  here — in  their  new  Bethel,  their  new 
church  home. 

And  so  the  vote  was  taken,  and  passed;  and 
Mr.  Doty,  and  the  clerk,  and  the  provision  man — 
as  the  responsible  men  of  affairs — were  chosen 
to  carry  out  the  settlements.  The  old  church  was 
formally  ended.  And  still  Mr.  Griswold  sat  with- 
out speaking. 

We  all  sat  for  a  moment,  waiting.  It  was  very 
quiet.  Mr.  Doty  sat  looking  down  on  us,  in 
white-vested  benevolence.  The  nervous  clerk 
chewed  at  his  toothpick.  The  old,  old  man,  the 
octogenarian  who  attended  Mr.  Griswold's 
prayer  meetings,  sat  chin  down  on  his  cane.  You 
could  hear  his  difficult  breathing  in  the  silence. 

It  was  the  man  who  prayed,  that  finally  called 


260  The  Last  Christian 

Mr.  Griswold  to  his  feet,  for  his  final  discourse, 
after  it  was  all  done. 

"  Before  we  go,"  he  pleaded,  "  before  we  go, 
will  not  our  dear  leader,  our  shepherd  of  long 
years,  speak?  Will  he  not  tell  us  what  is  on  his 
heart?" 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  again,  at  first. 
Then,  arousing  himself,  he  struggled  slowly  to 
his  feet.  It  was  very  still;  his  cane,  which  he  had 
placed  against  the  chair  before  him,  fell  loudly 
to  the  floor. 

"  I  am  awkward,"  he  said,  in  apology,  and  stood 
there,  looking  down  at  the  handful  of  men  in  his 
old  gathering  place  for  prayer.  Mr.  Tubbs,  sit- 
ting beside  me,  yawned  and  moved  his  feet. 

"To  what  end?"  said  the  old  man  heavily. 
"To  what  will  it  lead?  Who  will  listen  when  I 
speak?" 

"  All,  every  one  of  us  in  this  place!  "  said  Mr. 
Doty  warmly.  And  still  the  old  man  hesitated. 

"  Thirty  years  I  have  shown  you.  I  have  cried 
aloud  to  you,"  he  said  finally.  His  voice  had 
risen  a  little.  "  To  what  purpose  ?  " 

He  paused  again;  went  on. 

"  Now  this  has  come.  At  last  it  is  upon  us — 
what  we  feared — what  we  saw  coming  for  so 
long! 

"  For  this  is  not  new.  I  saw  it.  You  saw  it," 
he  said,  extending  his  long  finger  toward  Mr. 


What  Is  Upon  Us?  261 

Doty;  "  and  you!  "  he  said  to  the  old,  old  man — 
"  long  years  ago !  " 

Mr.  Tubbs  nudged  me  significantly  with  his 
elbow. 

"  So  now  it  is  here.  To-morrow  we  strip  this 
sanctuary.  And  it  becomes  a  playhouse — a  house 
for  grown  men,  in  child's  play." 

Mr.  Tubbs  sat  up,  stiffened  with  resentment. 
Mr.  Griswold,  half  facing  me,  looked  up  now.  I 
saw  the  momentary  flash  of  his  eyes  under  their 
ragged  brows. 

"  But  this  is  a  little  thing,"  he  said,  more  loudly 
— "  a  very  little  thing  to  what  is  coming  close  be- 
hind it !  To  what  I  see ;  and  what  you  see — exactly 
as  you  saw  before  in  this  one  church — is  rushing 
down  upon  us.  It  is  almost  here.  You  will  see 
it,  if  you  will  only  look." 

He  had  held,  by  one  shaky  hand,  to  the  seat 
before  him;  his  voice  had  not  been  quite  steady. 
But  now  it  steadied  and  grew  firmer. 

"  Let  us  be  men.  Let  us  look  at  it  before  it  over- 
whelms it,"  he  called,  and  stopped. 

They  sat  uneasily,  the  little  congregation — arm 
on  hymn  book,  looking  down,  waiting.  Mr.  Tubbs 
shuffled  his  feet  a  little;  Mr.  Doty  looked  down 
doubtfully  under  his  eyebrows. 

The  speaker  stood  a  moment;  his  deep-set, 
melancholy  eyes  turned  about  the  narrow  confines 
of  the  little  room. 


262  The  Last  Christian 

"  You  will  remember  this  church — the  place  of 
worship,  when  it  was  the  House  of  God !  "  He 
addressed  himself  seemingly  to  the  octogenarian, 
who  nodded  slightly,  his  chin  upon  his  cane. 
"  The  temple  of  a  living  God — full,  full  of  wor- 
shipers. You  remember  it — and  you,  and  you !  " 
he  said,  pointing.  "  The  House  of  God — an  ever- 
present  God — a  living  God. 

"  Now  this — now  this  handful ! 

"  Strange,  you  will  say.  Why?  Who  did  this 
thing?  I  will  tell  you;  I  will  tell  you,"  he  said, 
leaning  forward;  speaking  lower:  "The  foes  in 
our  own  household — the  whisperers!  " 

He  paused. 

"  The  whisperers,  the  traitors,  of  whom  Paul 
speaks — the  whisperers;  those  which  creep  into 
houses !  " 

A  strange  and  eerie  earnestness  had  come  into 
his  voice  and  manner.  I  saw  Mr.  Tubbs  turn 
toward  me  a  furtive  and  suggestive  glance. 

"  Digging,  digging,  digging — sapping  at  the 
foundations  of  our  faith,"  the  speaker  went  along, 
in  a  constrained,  mysterious  voice.  u  Where  did 
we  hear  them  first?  What  were  they  whispering 
of  when  we  heard  their  voices  thirty  years  ago? 
The  Creation,  was  it  not?"  The  octogenarian, 
appealed  to,  nodded  once  again. 

"  Just  a  breath.  Just  a  whisper.  Just  the  lisp- 
ing of  a  spring  night  wind  in  the  maple  leaves! 


What  Is  Upon  Us?  263 

softly;  lightly!  Was  it  possible,  was  it  possible? 
they  whispered,  we  had  misunderstood — we  had 
misinterpreted  that  first,  most  distant  period  of 
revelation — the  inspired  narrative  of  Moses  of  the 
Creation? 

"  '  There  it  is,'  we  said,  '  in  black  and  white — in 
God's  book.' 

"  '  Yes,  yes,'  they  whispered.  '  But  it  may  be ;  it 
might  be  we  have  misconceived  God's  meaning. 
Might  it  not  be  an  allegory — a  lesson — not  meant 
as  history?'  Oh,  they  were  humble  then;  very 
reverent!  " 

The  bearded  man  nodded  now.  His  eyes  were 
brightening. 

"  Where  do  we  find  them  next?  '  demanded  the 
old  speaker — "creeping,  creeping,  creeping  on? 
You  know.  You  remember.  At  God's  punish- 
ment. The  entire  scheme  of  Divine  Justice."  The 
octogenarian  nodded — deeply  now.  "  Probation 
— probation — might  not  divine  love  overcome 
divine  justice?  " 

"  '  But  there  it  is,'  we  said,  *  in  black  and  white 
in  the  Bible.  What  are  you  doing?  What  are  you 
trying  to  do?  Destroy  the  book  of  God— destroy 
all  revelation? ' 

"  '  No,  no,'  they  answered.  '  Never.  We  speak 
with  greatest  reverence  of  God's  book — of  revela- 
tion.' But  still  their  whisperings  grew." 

He  paused.     "  Off— 'way  off,"  remarked  Mr. 


264  The  Last  Chrisfian 

Tubbs,  leaning  over  toward  me.  He  touched  his 
knuckle  to  his  forehead. 

"  Then  what?  "  asked  Mr.  Griswold.  The  man 
who  prayed  sat  upright  now — and  stiff. 

"  They  were  moving,  moving,  moving,"  said 
Mr.  Griswold,  in  a  strange  and  stealthy  voice, 
"bolder  now;  a  little  bolder — where,  at  what? 
•Against  the  miracles.  Against  revelation  itself ! 

"  *  They  are  in  the  Bible,'  we  said — '  in  its  very 
fabric — woven  in  and  in.  They  are  revelation — 
its  signs  and  seals.  The  very  Scripture  itself !  ' 

"  '  Sit  still.  Sit  still,'  they  said.  '  The  Bible  is 
something  more  than  that — something  higher; 
something  more  satisfying.' 

"  '  What  ?  '  we  asked  them.  '  What  ?  Show  us ! 
How  can  a  book  of  fairy  tales  be  satisfying  to 
man's  immortal  soul?  ' 

"  '  Wait,'-  they  said.  *  Sit  still.  Wait,  we  will 
show  you.' 

"  And  still  we  heard  the  whisperings  grow — 
among  the  immature,  among  our  enemies,  in  our 
churches  themselves.' 

"  Right;  you  are  right!  "  interpolated  the  man 
who  prayed.  His  eyes  were  kindled  now,  with  an 
anxious  fire. 

A  greater  flame  was  in  Mr.  Griswold's  eyes. 
His  worn  old  figure  shook  with  a  nervous  tension 
too  strong  for  him. 

"And  then — then — where  do  we  find  them?" 


What  Is  Upon  Us?  265 

he  called.  "Where?  At  our  citadel — at  the  very 
resurrection  itself!  'Was  there  a  resurrection?' 
they  were  whispering.  '  Is  there  an  immortal  soul  ? 
Was  there  really,  then,  a  Savior?  Was  there;  was 
there  ?  We  only  ask.  We  just  suggest ! ' 

"  But  now  their  whisperings  rose.  They  ran 
around  the  world,  a  hissing — and  a  great  re- 
proach !  On  every  lip !  Caught  up  by  boys  and 
children !  That  whisper,  that  awful  whisper  they 
began !  It  filled  the  earth !  It  never  ceased  upon 
our  ears! 

"  '  What  have  you  done? '  we  asked  these  men 
— these  whisperers.  '  What  have  you  left?  Are 
you  destroying  faith?  Are  you  killing  Chris- 
tianity? ' 

"  They  answered  with  high  looks,  and  twisted 
lip.  '  Hush,  hush,  be  still.  You  are  belated.  You 
are  old,  old;  you  are  very  old.  Your  vision  has 
grown  dim.  Can  you  not  see?  We  have  some- 
thing nobler;  something  better.  Breadth  of  vi- 
sion; higher  interpretations, — long,  mysterious 
words — cold  and  unsatisfying  as  mouthfuls  of 
north  wind! 

"  *  No,  no ! '  we  said.  '  This  has  gone  too  far. 
Be  specific.  What  is  it  you  see?  What  do  you 
bring  us  in  your  hands?  ' 

"  '  Very  well,'  they  said,  *  we  will  show  you. 
We  will  unfold  our  scheme.  We  will  show  you 
the  new  Christianity! '  " 


266  The  Last  Christian 

He  stopped.  The  resonance  of  his  voice  died. 
He  stared  before  him,  a  bright  glitter  in  his  eye. 

"The  new  Christianity!  What  was  it?  Was 
it  new?  No,  not  one  word — all  picked  out  from 
the  Bible — from  the  book  they  left  in  ruins  under 
them.  Rags,  and  shags,  and  tatters,  they  had 
picked  out  from  the  wreck  they  made — like  glean- 
ers in  a  ruined  city.  This  was  their  new  Chris- 
tianity, the  thing  they  gave  us  back — a  few  selec- 
tions, a  few  verses  from  the  Bible — taken  at  the 
pleasure  of  Smith  and  Jones — of  Tom  and  Dick 
and  Harry — a  Christianity  without  a  Creator, 
without  a  Judge,  without  a  Bible.  A  Christianity 
without  a  resurrection,  without  an  immortality; 
without  a  Christ! 

"  And  now  they  sit  inside  the  doors  of  their 
emptying  churches,  and  cry  aloud,  and  wonder, 
why  the  people  pass  by  them — laughing. 

"  '  Come  in,'  they  call.    *  Come  in! ' 

"'There  is  no  God — no  living  God!'  these 
call  back  to  them  as  they  pass.  '  There  is  no 
Christ  I  You  have  told  us  so  yourselves.' 

"  '  Ah.  But  listen  to  His  words,'  they  say. 
'  His  words.' 

"  '  His  words?  '  they  answer  back  again.  *  Can 
myths  speak  anything  but  myths?  ' 

"  'Ah,  but  listen.  Come!  The  higher  ethics; 
the  fuller  interpretation.  The  broader  vision  of 
the  Bible.' 


What  Is  Upon  Us?  267 

"  '  Why  not  call  us  to  the  worship  of  the  statute 
books  of  Massachusetts?  '  the  people  cry  back  to 
them.  *  Why  not?  We  know  at  least  no  one  has 
called  these  fairy  tales.' 

"  And  so  they  shake  their  heads  and  pass  along 
— to  their  own  desires  and  devices — and  destruc- 
tion. 

"  In  vain  your  revivals — in  vain  your  gospel 
circus  shows — your  stereopticon  lectures  on 
Alaska !  Your  Browning  readings — your  pretty 
poetry — and  your  first  lessons  in  politics!  The 
people  pass  you  by. 

"  *  A  living  God,'  they  cry.  *  A  living  God — 
Him  only  will  we  worship  1  ' 

"  Where  are  they;  where  are  the  people  gone?  " 
demanded  the  old  speaker.  "  Are  they  in  your 
churches  Sundays?  Are  they  worshipers  of  God? 
Let  us  be  men.  Let  us  no  longer  palter,  and  cast 
down  our  eyelids  like  schoolgirls.  Let  us  look  at 
this  thing  boldly  as  it  comes. 

"Look  about — the  closed  and  vacant  sanctu- 
aries upon  these  hills;  the  emptying  temples  of  the 
great  cities!  Is  this  a  people  of  worshipers?  Is 
this  a  Christian  nation  now?  Is  it?  Hardly." 

"Crazy!"  whispered  Mr.  Tubbs,  leaning  to- 
ward me  again.  "  Crazy!  " 

"Hardly — now!"  The  speaker  was  passing 
on.  "Hardly!  And  what  of  three  generations 
from  now — what  of  the  time  before  us  in  the 


268  The  Last  Christian 

future — just  that  little  length  of  time,  which  eyes 
in  this  room  have  looked  back  into  the  past? 
What  if  this  tide  sweeps  on?  "  he  asked,  and  an- 
swered his  own  question. 

"  A  pagan  nation — heathen — a  nation  lost  in 
darkness — without  hope,  without  a  light — without 
a  Christ! 

"  Let  us  not  mince  phrases.  You  know  it.  I 
know  it.  The  day  of  Christianity  is  dying  in  this 
nation — unless  this  nation  turns  itself!  " 

He  stopped.  The  man  who  prayed  sat  on  the 
edge  of  his  chair,  his  Bible  in  his  hand — ready  to 
spring  upon  his  feet. 

"  Crazy,"  said  Mr.  Tubbs  again,  leaning  over. 
"Crazy  as  a  bat!" 

"  Turn,  turn — return !  "  the  voice  of  the  speaker 
rose  in  the  dimly  lighted  room.  The  handful 
of  listeners  heard  him — head  down,  arms  upon 
their  hymn  books.  Mr.  Doty  was  ill  at  ease. 
Mr.  Spurdle's  hand  arranged  his  necktie.  The 
nervous  clerk  sat  gnawing  furiously  at  his  tooth- 
pick. 

"Turn  back,"  cried  Mr.  Griswold,  "let  us 
turn  back  to  a  living  God!  To  a  living  Christ 
that  was  crucified.  Let  us  show  Him  forth!  Let 
us  sweep  away — let  us  sweep  away  these  doubts — 
this  gathering  of  darkness!  Hush  these  whis- 
pers— silence  them!  Bring  back  mankind  its 
hope! 


What  Is  Upon  Us?  269 

"Hope!  Hope!"  he  cried.  "They  have 
killed  man's  hope !  " 

He  stood  a  moment,  speechless. 

"  I  warn  you,"  he  went  on,  speaking  a  little  less 
fiercely.  "  I  warn  you !  As  I  have  warned  you 
now  for  thirty  years.  You  must  turn  back  to 
God — to  the  one  living  God — and  to  his  living 
Son.  One  God — one  only  Son — one  Holy  Spirit. 
One  only  triune  God.  For  as  surely  as  you  do 
not  turn  again,  so  surely  is  this  nation  lost.  As 
Tyre  and  Sidon ;  as  Nineveh  and  Babylon.  Lost ! 
Paid  the  penalty !  Smoke  and  ashes !  Gone  for- 
ever— slipped  down  forever  into  the  Great  Pit." 

He  stopped  again,  swayed  a  little.  And  stood 
there  for  a  few  seconds  more.  He  seemed  be- 
wildered. 

"  I  have  said  what  I  wish  to  say,"  he  said  at 
last,  wiped  the  perspiration  on  his  forehead,  and 
sat  down. 

We  sat  silent  then — looking  down — all  but  the 
bearded  man  who  prayed.  He  had  been  waiting. 
He  was  on  his  feet  at  once,  trembling,  on  fire  to 
exhort. 

"We  have  heard  it!"  he  cried.  "We  have 
heard  it!  We  have  heard  the  word.  We  must 
act.  We  must  organize!  "  His  eye  passed  from 
one  figure  to  the  other.  He  opened  his  Bible  to 
read. 

I   looked  across.     Mr.   Griswold  was   rising 


270  The  Last  Christian 

slowly — taking  up  his  hat.  He  stopped  and  looked 
about  the  room  once — a  little  dazed,  he  seemed, 
still.  His  lips  moved. 

"  A  voice  crying  in  the  wilderness,"  he  said,  like 
a  man  talking  entirely  to  himself. 

And  then  he  walked  heavily  to  the  door.  Sev- 
eral looked  up,  but  no  one  thought  to  follow  him. 

We  sat  there  after  he  had  left,  with  downcast 
eyes,  until  the  exhorter  had  finished  his  out- 
.pouring.  Then  we  adjourned.  I  myself  walked 
on  toward  home  with  Mr.  Tubbs. 

Just  before  us,  as  we  went  out,  were  the  octo- 
genarian, and  the  man  who  prayed,  walking  very 
slowly,  passing  down  the  steps. 

"  A  powerful  discourse,"  said  the  octogenarian, 
leaning  heavily  upon  his  cane.  "  A  powerful  dis- 
course. It  stirred  us.  It  stirred  us !  " 

"  We  must  act.  We  must  organize !  "  said  the 
bearded  figure.  "  We  must  spread  the  News." 

But  the  old,  old  man  did  not  answer  him.  He 
was  busy  with  his  walking. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  DARKENED  SHRINE 

I   WAS  with  Mr.  Tubbs  upon  his  piazza.    He 
was  explaining  to  me,  in  more  detail  than  I 
had  heard  before,  the  plans  for  the  new  uses 
of  the  old  church. 

"  A  temple  of  Odd-Fellowship,"  said  Mr. 
Tubbs.  "  A  big  thing.  A  good  hall.  A  place 
where  folks  can  get  together,  and  have  some 
up-to-date  enjoyment.  A  big  thing — a  big  thing, 
I  tell  you,  for  this  place  I 

"And  we  got  it,"  said  Mr.  Tubbs,  winking 
broadly — "  we  got  it  for  a  song." 

I  was  getting  restive,  when  I  saw  the  figure 
of  a  woman — of  Celeste  coming  across  the 
lawn. 

"Have  you  seen  father?"  she  asked. 

"  No,"  I  answered. 

"Will  you  come  with  me,  please?  "  she  asked 
me. 

Mr.  Tubbs  got  up,  hesitated — sat  down  again. 
The  request  was  very  clearly  directed  at  me  alone. 

"  I'm  anxious,"  she  said,  as  we  went  away  to- 
gether. 

271 


272  The  Last  Christian 

"  We'll  find  him  somewhere,"  I  told  her. 

"  I'm  afraid  he  may  be  in  the  church,"  she  said. 

"Upstairs?" 

"  Yes.    He  was  there  once  before,"  she  told  me. 

Every  one  was  gone;  the  place  was  closed  and 
locked.  But  Celeste  had  a  key  to  the  side  entrance. 
We  let  ourselves  into  the  vestry,  and  following 
her,  I  went  to  the  entrance  of  the  front  stairs.  It 
was  dark,  but  there  was  light  enough  from  the 
electric  lamps  on  the  street,  so  that  we  could  pick 
our  way  through  the  place. 

We  went  upstairs.  I  felt  again  in  the  dark  that 
suspense — that  little  gasp  of  expectation,  which  I 
have  sensed  in  the  entry  of  the  church,  before 
finally  passing  in  the  closed  doors  of  the  house  of 
God,  always,  since  I  was  a  child.  We  moved 
quietly.  Celeste  pushed  back  without  a  sound  the 
swinging  door,  which  led  into  the  side  aisle.  She 
motioned  for  greater  silence.  We  stood  together 
inside. 

She  gripped  my  arm  then.  And  I  saw  that  her 
father  was  there.  I  could  barely  see  him.  On 
the  platform — a  little  back  and  to  one  side  of  the 
pulpit  we  could  see  a  figure ! 

A  small,  round  spot  of  electric  light,  coming 
through  the  window — through  a  little  opening  in 
the  foliage  of  the  elm  trees  outside — fell  upon 
his  white  beard.  There  were  other  smaller  spots 
— upon  his  forehead;  upon  a  hand,  which  rested 


The  Darkened  Shrine  273 

upon  the  great  Bible,  lying  open  on  the  pulpit. 
The  rest  of  him — the  figure  in  black  broadcloth — 
was  almost  invisible;  swallowed  up  in  the  deep 
background. 

.He  stood  rigid — motionless.  He  might  per- 
haps have  heard  our  coming.  The  slightest  noise 
swelled  to  a  tumult  in  the  place.  I  waited  for 
what  Celeste  would  do.  Her  hand  was  on  my 
arm,  governing  me.  She  did  not  move.  We  stood 
there  seconds — minutes  possibly.  The  black  fig- 
ure upon  the  platform  stood  erect,  motionless — 
so  still  it  seemed  like  nothing  living. 

It  stirred  then — spoke: 

"Oh,  Hope  of  Israel!"  it  called  softly. 
«  Thou  God " 

He  was  praying.  He  stopped,  stood  motionless 
again. 

"Thou  one — triune — and  only  God!  How 
long?  How  long?  " 

He  stopped  again. 

"  Arise !  Arise !  "  he  started  suddenly.  "  Arise, 
with  healing  in  Thy  wings." 

He  stopped  in  sudden  silence — a  dim  and  mo- 
tionless gray  priest,  behind  a  silent  shrine.  The 
solemn  place  seemed  choked  with  the  immanence 
of  some  ancient  winged  Asian  deity. 

"How  long?"  asked  the  old  voice  again. 
"How  long?" 

Far,  far  away,  there  rose  the  hollow  call  of  a 


274  The  Last  Christian 

locomotive — the  cry  of  the  moving  machine,  which 
year  after  year  now  grows  to  disturb  our  nights. 

The  light  and  shadow  moved  just  perceptibly 
upon  the  unmoving  face.  A  little  wind  was  stir- 
ring. 

."Where  art  Thou?"  demanded  the  voice 
again.  "  Why  hidest  Thou  Thy  face  in  dark- 
ness?" 

I  felt  Celeste's  light,  firm  hand  upon  my  arm. 
My  thoughts  went  back  again  to  that  other  time 
we  three  stood  there — that  day  we  two  children 
had  joined  the  old  White  Church  together.  The 
day  the  preacher  called  out  his  discourse  upon 
Elijah  and  his  triumph  over  the  priests  of 
Baal. 

"  Thy  people  die.  Thy  people  perish !  Lost — 
lost — lost!  Darkness  covers  all  the  earth,  and 
gross  darkness  the  people." 

The  wind  was  freshening;  a  flicker  of  light 
through  the  shifting  foliage  touched  his  eye. 

"  Arise,  shine !  "  he  said  quickly.  "  Lift  up  the 
light  of  Thy  countenance  upon  us !  Lift  it  up !  " 

He  stopped — listened,  apparently.  In  the  dis- 
tance toward  the  village,  we  heard  the  hourly 
trolley  car  as  it  came  into  the  Street. 

"  Thou  that  ridest  upon  the  Heavens,"  said  the 
voice — and  stopped  again,  listening. 

The  sound  approached;  the  jar  and  thunder  of 
the  rolling  machine  filled  the  silent,  empty  place. 


The  Darkened  Shrine  275 

"  Thou  that  spake  on  Horeb !  Thou  that  thun- 
derest  on  Sinai !  "  said  the  voice  in  broken  inter- 
vals. "Speak!" 

The  car  had  passed  the  door. 

"Speak,  speak!  Send  us  a  sign!"  called  the 
old,  wild  voice.  "  If  Thou  wouldst,  Thou  couldst 
send  signs  and  wonders !  " 

The  noise  of  the  trolley  died  away. 

"  No !  "  the  voice  said  dully.    "  No !  " 

I  looked  at  Celeste  questioningly. 

"  Not  yet,  dear,"  she  whispered.    "  Not  yet!  " 

"How  long?"  the  voice  was  saying  once 
again.  "How  long?" 

The  wind  outside  was  rising.  It  tossed  and 
lifted  the  lithe  branches  of  the  elm  trees.  The 
light  of  the  electric  street  lamp  fell  upon  his  eye — 
for  longer  now.  I  saw  the  glitter  of  his  eye-ball, 
from  where  we  stood. 

He  moved,  and  shook  his  head.  It  seemed  to 
annoy  him.  But  the  same  suggestion  came  to 
him  again. 

"  Arise,  shine !  "  he  said.  And  was  silent  for 
a  long  time. 

We  heard  the  freshening  wind  in  the  elm  trees. 
The  circuit  in  the  street  light  was  disturbed.  We 
heard  the  electricity  hiss  and  stammer  on  its  car- 
bons; its  blue  light  flickered  through  the  place. 
But  still  we  did  not  move;  for  still  Celeste's  hand 
was  restraining  me.  And  still  the  speaker  did  not 


276  The  Last  Christian 

call  again,  until  the  light  shone  once  again,  full 
into  his  eyes. 

"  A  light,"  he  said  then,  absently.  "  A  light 
that  shineth  in  the  darkness."  He  paused.  It 
came  again. 

"  Shineth — until  the  day  dawn — until  the  day 
dawn!  " 

His  voice  grew  heavier  now,  less  vibrant. 
"  Dearly  beloved.  Until  the  day  dawn !  " 

I  knew  a  change  was  coming  in  him.  Celeste's 
fingers  were  tightening  on  my  arm. 

"  Dearly  beloved,"  he  said  again — "  until  the 
day  dawn !  " 

"  He's  going  back,"  Celeste  whispered,  moving 
for  the  first  time.  "  He's  remembering!  " 

He  roused  himself  a  little.  A  miracle  had 
come,  in  fact,  with  his  praying — the  sign  and  won- 
der that  he  had  desired.  He  was  back  again — 
talking  to  his  dead  people — of  the  hopes  pf  thirty 
years  before. 

"  It  is  coming,  Dearly  Beloved,"  he  was  telling 
them.  "  Do  we  not  see  it  ?  It  has  dawned  for  us. 
It  is  dawning  now  for  all  mankind.  It  comes;  it 
comes!  It  moves  across  the  mountains — the  isl- 
ands of  the  sea !  It  is  on  us  — it  is  here ! 

"  In  this  new  century.  This  nineteenth  century 
— this  century  of  wonders  and  new  light — it  is 
upon  us!  Who  knows  what  eyes  now  here  will 
see  of  its  coming?  Who  knows  what  this  cen- 


The  Darkened  Shrine  277 

tury  will  not  disclose,  to  us,  the  followers  of  the 
Christ?" 

He  stopped.  The  wind  was  falling.  The  light 
passed  from  his  eyes;  came  again. 

"  What  changes — what  changes  eyes  that  are 
here  will  see!  Will  they  wait  until  the  dawn — 
wait  until  the  day  dawn — and  the  day-star — 
Will  they  wait  till  the  Day-star  arise?"  His 
voice  grew  slow — slower — dragged  down  to 
silence. 

The  flurry  of  wind  was  gone;  the  long 
branches  of  the  elm  trees  drooped;  the  shadows 
moved  no  longer  on  the  high  windows,  or  on  his 
face. 

For  a  long  time  he  was  silent.  Beside  me,  at 
my  shoulder,  I  could  feel  the  body  of  Celeste 
grow  tenser  and  more  tense.  Then  all  at  once 
another  voice  came  from  the  pulpit  platform — a 
changed  voice. 

"  It  is  dark  here,"  it  said,  fretfully,  like  a 
wakened  child. 

"  Father ! "  Celeste  Griswold  whispered 
quickly.  But  there  was  no  answer. 

"  This  is  strange — unusual — "  said  Mr.  Gris- 
wold's  voice  at  last. 

She  called  him  again;  but  he  did  not  hear  her. 

"  I  do  not  understand  this,"  he  said  again. 
"  They  are  gone.  They  are  gone,  it  seems.  All 
gone.  Strange !  " 


278  The  Last  Christian 

"Father!"  Celeste  called  once  again.  And 
now  moved  toward  him. 

The  suggestion  of  her  voice  had  reached  him  at 
last. 

"  My  daughter,"  he  was  saying,  "  I  must  find 
my  daughter.  She  can't  have  gone — without 
me!" 

She  had  come  quite  near  to  him  now,  walking 
softly  up  the  dim  aisle. 

"No!  No!  She  hasn't,  dear,"  she  said  to 
him. 

"  Celeste !  "  he  said  quickly.  "  Celeste !  I  was 
afraid  that  you  had  gone !  " 

"  Oh,  no,  dear,"  she  told  him — and  laughed  a 
little.  "What  made  you  think  that?" 

"  So  many  have,"  he  answered  wearily.  "  So 
many  have." 

"  Oh,  no,  I'm  here,  father,"  said  Celeste,  in  her 
most  cheery  voice. 

She  was  at  the  platform  now — I  following  her. 

She  took  his  arm  lightly  to  guide  him. 

"  It's  dark  here,"  he  complained  again.  "  We 
seem  to  be  here  in  the  dark." 

His  mind  was  clearing — but  was  still  not  very 
clear. 

"We  are  in  the  church — are  we  not?"  he 
asked  them,  coming  down  the  stairs. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  she  answered  him — "  of  course 


The  Darkened  Shrine  279 

"  I  see,"  he  said,  a  little  wonderingly.  But  did 
not  question  further. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  his  daughter  told  him.  "  But  it's 
time  to  go." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  like  a  sleepy  child.  "  I  know. 
It's  time  to  go,  Little  Daughter.  It's  time  to 
go." 

He  was  perfectly  tractable.  We  brought  him 
home  without  the  slightest  trouble.  But  when  he 
was  there,  it  came — the  final  stroke.  We  scarcely 
got  him  to  his  bedroom  when  it  came  upon  him; 
and  I  was  rushing  for  the  doctor. 

I  stayed  below,  waiting,  when  the  doctor  came. 
He  came  down  from  upstairs  at  last — for  a  mo- 
ment, with  an  order  for  something  I  could  do. 

"They've  got  him  this  time,"  he  said  crisply; 
"  they've  broken  him  at  last." 

He  hurried  back  again.  And  I  waited.  Once 
or  twice  he  was  down,  alert — busy  with  his  work. 

I  asked  him  if  I  could  be  of  any  use  upstairs. 
"No,  no,"  he  said,  "why  should  you  be  there? 
No,  stay  away.  Why  should  any  one,  but  we  who 
have  to,  see  it?  " 

But  Celeste,  of  course,  he  could  not  move  away 
from  where  she  was — and  stayed. 

I  waited  there,  in  the  old  library,  among  the 
dead  Doctors  of  Divinity,  those  intolerable,  drag- 
ging hours  of  listening  and  suspense.  I  heard  the 
little  movements  in  the  room  above — the  silences. 


280  The  Last  Christian 

I  sat  and  rose;  and  opened  pages  of  the  old  man's 
books;  and  closed  them  and  put  them  back  upon 
their  shelves  again.  But  all  the  time  my  fright- 
ened mind  dwelt  in  imagination  in  the  room  above 
— with  the  dying  man,  the  woman — the  one 
woman,  that  one  figure  dearest  in  the  world  to  me. 

It  was  five  o'clock  when  it  came.  The  lower 
stars  were  fading  in  the  high  translucence  of  the 
dawn.  And  the  sons  of  men  were  waking,  across 
the  barren  hills  of  old  New  England;  across  the 
land  of  my  own  people.  In  its  fields,  beside 
the  gaunt  stacks  of  its  factories;  within  its  misty 
cities  on  the  sea,  they  woke  again  into  another 
day.  And  as  I  watched  it  coming,  out  of  the  old 
library  window,  he  was  gone — my  dear,  old  friend. 
Gone;  and  with  him  went,  for  me,  a  generation — 
a  generation  of  strong  and  honest  men.  There 
was  a  stir  in  the  room  above — a  muffled  cry.  I 
knew  that  he  was  dead. 

I  stood  below,  rigid,  listening — waiting. 

She  came  to  me  at  last — down  the  old  steep 
stairs.  The  doctor  made  her  come  away — sent 
her  to  me. 

I  stood  waiting  in  the  door. 

"Celeste!"  I  called. 

She  came  into  my  arms — dry-eyed,  silent.  Her 
body  shuddered  lightly  against  mine — and  lay 
still. 


The  Darkened  Shrine  281 

"  I'm  so  tired,  dear,"  she  whispered.  "  So 
tired — so  tired." 

Across  her  white  face  fell  the  light — the  first 
warm  sunlight  of  another  day. 


